


Who You Are

by ImaginAria



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Hell won the war, I'm sure I'll find more tags to add later, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Some description of hurt wings, but it all happens off screen, slave AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:00:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 40,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22625194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImaginAria/pseuds/ImaginAria
Summary: After the fire, Aziraphale never reappeared. Hell won the war. And Crowley was highly honored for his role in bringing about Armageddon...not that he wanted to be. But maybe his "reward" will be a blessing in disguise--and give him a second chance at saving the world.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 174
Kudos: 700
Collections: Courts GO Re-Reads, Hurt Aziraphale





	1. Found

**Author's Note:**

> I've read so many good slave au stories where Crowley's lost his memory--so of course I had to write one where it was Aziraphale who had forgotten.

Crowley hadn't wanted to return to Hell. Not even a little bit. In fact, he was sure-as-Heaven-still-burnt that if he'd had any say in the matter hat he would still be on Adam's Earth—but Upper Management finally decreed that his reward for so faithfully fulfilling his duties—delivering the Antichrist and Armageddon—was to retire in style to a mansion in hell and be available for consultation.

Oh—and he was getting an Angel.

Everything else he could maybe grit his teeth and bear. But he did not want an Angle—not unless it was the specific one he'd lost so many years ago. But Beelzebub had sat him down and said that, in no uncertain terms, unless he wanted to question gifts from Satan he would shut his mouth and take one lest he end up assigned to cleaning Hellfire pits in the darkest, deepest, most unpleasant places Hastur and Ligur and Michael could think of.

Given the options, Crowley had shut his mouth and scheduled a time to go pick out an Angel.

After Hell had won the Second War, the population of Heaven had been decimated. Those who remained were categorized—some more useful ones were induced to Fall, or kept guarded to do menial labor rebuilding Heaven and Earth. Many of the prettier or more powerful ones were taken by Upper Management: some of the higher Lords had half a dozen Angelic slaves or even more. The rest were brought to Hell and kept in enormous jails to be picked over by the rest of the demons.

A prison like the one Crowley was currently being led through, by a small, round demon, who more rolled than walked past the cages—which more resembled oversized birdcages than anything else. Inside, were Angels.

The didn't look like the Angels Crowley remembered from Heaven so long ago, nor the ones he'd met in battle during the Second War so recently. Then, the Angels had been full of pride—though they would have vehemently denied it—and constantly looked down their noses at everyone from the safety of their radiating holy glow.

These angels were anything but.

Most of them still stared defiantly, but they stared out of thin, strained faces framed by dirty, grimy, oily hair. Those few who had garments clung to the filthy cloth that barely covered anything. Physically, most of their bodies were without wounds—easy to do with demonic miracles. Their manifested wings were another matter entirely. Bent and broken, feathers missing and twisted—seeing them nearly made Crowley wince.

“Their wings—why?”

“Reminds them who has the power here,” the round demon grunted, “Keeps them humble.” As if they needed more reminders. As if the cages, the conditions, the anti-miracle collars made of dark demonic metal clasped like bands of night around their throats, weren't enough.

“Any catch your eye?” The round demon hit the side of a cage, and the angels inside drew back, wide-eyed.

Crowley took a deep breath—a habit from years on Earth—and instantly regretted it. He covered a cough and muttered grumpily, “I'll browse.”

“Take your time,” the round demon guffawed, “They aren't going anywhere!”

Crowley started to agree when he caught sight of something in the back.

An angel was there, which wasn't unusual in this place, but what _was_ unusual was that he was all alone in his cage—unlike the others, he wasn't scrambling around, or even watching the two demons. Instead, he was kneeling, head bowed, almost like he was praying except his hands weren't folded in his lap: they had fallen to his sides, boneless with palms rest up, dirty, chipped fingernails curling slightly upwards. Mimicking the position of his wings.

They weren't as dirty as the others, perhaps, but they were splayed out at unnatural angles, flopped behind him, and just by looking Crowley could tell that delicate bones had been crushed and twisted and never allowed to heal properly. Agonizing and eternal pain.

Emotions rose in Crowley's throat—rage, first, but mixed with hope, pain, devastation, and something that was only a hair away from happiness. Because even here, even now, so many years later, even with the figure in front of him a far cry from the rotund, jovial angle he had known—he recognized _his_ angel.

Aziraphale.

Aziraphale was _alive_.

“Why...why is he here?” Crowley breathed, as he slowly knelt down in front of the cage. He meant it as a rhetorical question, but the round demon answered.

“This one? He has to be kept apart. The other angels beat him if he's in with them—something about him being a traitor in the last war. Keep trying to get rid of 'im but all his Masters keep returning him.” The round demon scratched his nose and confided, “Most demons like the ones that still have a little fight left, but this one is too broken—he just does whatever's asked of him, no spirit left at all--”

Crowley tuned him out. All his focus was on the angel in front of him—the one he'd thought had died in the fire before the War was even fought.

“Aziraphale,” he whispered, “Aziraphale—it's me.”

Nothing. Not even a breath.

“Aziraphale--” A bubble of nerves was starting to form in Crowley's chest. Something was wrong: more wrong than the angles in birdcages and Hell winning the War, “Look at me.”

At that, Aziraphale's chin jerked up, and his eyes matched Crowley's. The demon drew in a sharp breath. The sky blue eyes staring back at him were like perfectly flat mirrored pools—not a speck of emotion, feelings, not a hint of the fussy, friendly Principality he had come to know so well showed through.

There was Nothing.

The round demon was still rambling and Crowley promptly cut him off with a snap of, “I'll take him.”

“M'lord?” The round demon stuttered, “Are you sure you want...?”

Crowley snarled, standing and turning on the round demon with golden eyes fiery, “I ssssaid,” he hissed, “I'll take him.”

The round demon bowed repeatedly, “I'll get the paperwork m'lord, right away m'lord,” and scampered off.

Crowley settled back down in front of the cage and rested his hand on the bars, searching Aziraphale's eyes again for any hint of recognition, “I'll get you out of here, angel.”

The round demon was back momentarily. Crowley licked his finger and signed his fiery demonic sigil to several pages and had to dig his black-painted nails into his palms to keep himself from ripping the door of the cage off to get to his angel as the round demon slowly unlocked the cage.

“This is your new Masster,” the round demon said to the angel, who was still kneeling, “You will obey him.”

“Yes, sir.” The first words Aziraphale had said in Crowley's presence were flat and dull. Aziraphale's voice, yes, but wrong.

“Stand.” The round demon ordered, and Aziraphale slowly dragged himself up. Crowley winced, watching the angel's wings, and he couldn't stop himself anymore—he stepped to the angel.

“I'm taking you home, angel.”

“Sir--” the round demon started, but Crowley was done listening to him; he was getting his angel out of here. With a snap of his fingers, he miracled himself and Aziraphale back to his new mansion.


	2. First Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley begins the long process of helping his angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning here that the update schedule is going to be highly irregular--I've got the first few chapters drafted up, but from there we'll just have to see.

Aziraphale staggered slightly as they arrived, but showed no other signs of reacting to their change in location. Watching him, Crowley himself was torn. He wanted to reach to his angel, wrap him in a hug and never let him go ever again...but something held him back.

Aziraphale's mirror-blank eyes.

After a moment of them standing there in Crowley's rather sparsely furnished but still palatial living room, Crowley watching Aziraphale, who was staring into space apparently, the former reluctantly asked, more hesitant than he wanted to be, “Do you know me, Aziraphale?”

“You are my Master,” Aziraphale responded instantly, robotically, “I am here to serve you.” If he realized that Crowley knew his name without being told, he didn't show any sign of it.

“No...” Crowley stepped forward, shaking his head and taking one of the angel's hands. It was like holding a dead fish, limp and lifeless. Aziraphale had always kept his hands in perfect condition, the better for carefully paging through old books, but now his nails were cracked and dirty, his skin dry. “Don't you remember?” Crowley pleaded, “Earth? The Garden? Golgotha and Rome and London—6000 years, we were the only ones...please, Aziraphale, tell me you remember _us_.”

Aziraphale hesitated, and, for a moment, Crowley's heart leaped, but then, “I...wish to obey you, Master, but I should not lie to you...”

Crowley's heart plummeted—nothing. He released Aziraphale's hand and stepped back, rejected.

The angel added, nervously, “I'm so sorry if I have displeased you, Master. You may punish me as you see fit...”

Crowley's eyes widened in horror, “No! No!” He was suddenly right in front of the angel, staring as if he could peel back the current more-or-less healthy exterior and see the invisible wounds that were so obviously covering Aziraphale's soul beneath, “Did someone hurt you?” He had to work hard to keep his voice soft and gentle. It wasn't the angel who deserved his wrath.

“It is a Master's right to use their property as they see fit.” Another perfectly recited answer, like he was reading from a rulebook in his head.

Crowley had to fight hard to keep himself from breaking something, or storming out to find everyone who had ever laid a hand on Aziraphale and disintegrate them, “It's not,” Crowley said, softly, “It's absolutely not. And I will never hurt you, angel, not ever.”

His heart, of course, decided right at that moment to viciously remind him of all the times he had unintentionally caused his angel's face to fall in disappointment, but now was not the time to dwell on the past. They were just going to have to take baby steps—Aziraphale was here, back from the dead, physically at least, and that physical aspect was something Crowley could help.

Aziraphale's face remained completely passive as thoughts rushed through Crowley's mind, so Crowley took a deep breath and moved to stand in front of him. He wasn't sure how the angel would react to this, but it had to be done, “Aziraphale—what is hurting you. What physical injuries do you have?”

Aziraphale's lip trembled slightly, and Crowley felt his heart ache, but the angel answered, “I'm...mostly in moderate physical health, Master. Slaves are not useful if they are overly broken.”

“May I...?” Crowley slowly raised a hand to Aziraphale's temple, “May I see?”

“Yes, Master.” Crowley had a sense that would be his response whether he was okay with it or not, but Crowley couldn't deal with the angel being in pain that he could heal. Very delicately, like he was brushing the just-emerged petals of a blooming rose, he set his fingertips against Aziraphale's temple and closed his eyes, reaching out and _feeling_.

Aziraphale had, of course, told the truth. Corporation-wise, his body was mostly all right. Angels and demons couldn't get sick, which helped since Crowley was sure that a normal human would not be doing great after being subjected to the conditions he'd found Aziraphale in. So no infection, no inflammation. A few aches and pains in his knees, probably from kneeling so long on a hard floor, which Crowley smoothed out with a little miracle, and a feeling of cold which permeated the angel (unsurprising, given his state of undress, which Crowley was trying very hard not to pay more attention to than was required). Crowley noted this feeling, but didn't dare apply his usual solution of Hellfire—more likely to hurt the angel than heal him—and instead snapped his fingers to draw a warm bath in the next room.

Crowley opened his eyes to find Aziraphale's closed, the angel at least the tiniest bit relaxed. Which was good, because now Crowley had to address his non-corporeal damage: Aziraphale's mutilated wings.

Demon and angel wings were not truly part of their physical corporations, which was what allowed them to be folded away in other dimensions when they weren't needed. But that also meant that healing them was a far more difficult and delicate operation than just corporations—wings had a much more direct connection to their souls. If demons still had souls, which continued to be up for debate amongst the more bored of Hell's inhabitants.

Withdrawing his hand from Aziraphale's face, Crowley slowly circled around the angel, trying to figure out where even to start—bones first probably, go from there. Unfortunately, that would also likely be the worst bit.

Crowley reached out towards the grimy white feathers—and as soon as his fingertip brushed the soft down, Aziraphale let out a sound that could only be described as a _bleat_ , the sound a baby lamb makes as it is torn away from its mother, and leaped forward, tripping, crashing, and rolling into a heap of battered white feathers as Crowley stood frozen, mouth hanging open in shock.

“Aziraphale! Are you all right?!” Stupid question. Obviously he wasn't.

Aziraphale peered out at him from a cage of twisted feathers, and the angel's face instantly transformed into one of pure, unadulterated _terror_ , words pouring out in a torrent as he scrambled to bring himself to his knees, “I'm so sorry Master, I'm so sorry Master, I didn't mean to jump away, you can--”

“Shhh...” Crowley slowly sank to his knees too, bringing himself to Aziraphale's eye-level, and trying not to wince at the panic in his angel's eyes, “I'm sorry for startling you. Are you all right?”

Aziraphale stared back for a beat with his wide, empty eyes before answering, “Yes, Master.”

Crowley let out a sigh of relief and sank back onto his heels, pondering out loud, “Good. Okay—you're obviously not ready to have someone touch your wings, but if they stay out like this you're only going to hurt them more. For now...may I...may I put them away for you?”

Aziraphale didn't even hesitate in nodding, “Yes, Master,” but Crowley could read easily that Aziraphale was still fully expecting to be punished for jumping away and right now would have agreed to walk over hot coals to the moon if Crowley had asked. Someone, someday _soon_ , was going to _pay for this_ , he vowed as he focused—changing another occult (or ethereal) being's form was difficult but not impossible if they were willing—and snapped both his fingers at once.

When he opened his eyes, Aziraphale's destroyed wings were gone, hidden away, and the angel sat in a heap, wide-eyed. But the briefest flicker of relief darted across his face and that was enough.

“There we are, angel,” Crowley allowed just the tiniest smile. He knew Aziraphale could still feel the ache of his wings, but it would be dulled dramatically, and he could move far more easily. The demon offered a hand to the angel, “I've drawn a warm bath up—let's get you clean and warm.”

Aziraphale took his hand, but Crowley could still feel the angel trembling deep in his bones. Gently, he brushed his thumb soothingly over the back of Aziraphale's hand, and helped the angel to stand.


	3. A Long Way to Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was not expecting to get this one done so fast...but here you go. This is almost entirely just fluff, really.

Crowley had specifically done up the bath exactly how he remembered Aziraphale had liked—or how he had described that he'd liked anyways. Mountains of silver-purple bubbles, smelling like lilacs, topped the enormous tub full of steamy, warm water. There were racks of soaps with flowers pressed into them lining the walls, as well as little bottles of fancy oils and creams which Crowley had no idea what they did but thought they were required in such a fancy bathroom. 

Crowley helped Aziraphale step into the enormous tub, not trusting the angle not to slip and fall at the moment, and smiled as Aziraphale slowly sank down into the bubbles. All this time, though, the angel's glassy eyes watched him, virtually unblinking, and after Crowley inclined his head a bit in confusion, Aziraphale asked, splashing a bit at the water nervously, “Won't you...be joining me, Master?”

Crowley let out a shuddering breath. Damn but he'd wanted to hear exactly that phrase from his Aziraphale. He'd dreamed of it a lot over the last 50 years, since their long friendship had really started turning into something more...dreamed, but never thought he'd hear it in person, especially after...

But this, now?

“No,” Crowley shook his head firmly, partially for Aziraphale and partially to shake any traces of those thoughts out of his mind and remind himself what he was doing here.

“Oh...” Aziraphale didn't seem to quite know what to do with this information, but Crowley let him soak and ponder for a moment as he dug in a drawer and found his manicure set. On Earth, Aziraphale had always gone out to have his nails and hair done, but Crowley had preferred to do it himself. Never felt the need for humans to get their inexperienced hands on his crimson locks or perfect black-painted nails.

He settled next to Aziraphale's tub, feeling the angel watching him from his cocoon of bubbles, “May I have your hand?”

Azirpahale laid one hand on the side of the tub, and Crowley took in the sorry state of both skin and nails—as he'd thought earlier, his angel would never have let his hands get so bad. Actually seeing them washed now, with some of the dirt and grime gone, was at least somewhat better, but they still needed work. 

Using a feather-soft bath towel he'd miraculously acquired, Crowley patted Aziraphale's hand dry, and then withdrew his nail clippers. He could feel Aziraphale tense up, and he didn't even want to imagine what was going on in his head, “Steady on, angel,” he murmured softly, and began carefully and precisely trimming Aziraphale's nails—then filing, polishing, and rubbing on a sweet citrus re-hydrating oil across his skin, massaging it into the angel's hand.

As he worked, he could sense Aziraphale relaxing again into the nice miraculously constant warmth of the bath water, although his eyes remained fixed on Crowley. Crowley let a ghost of a smile drift onto his face, but remained concentrating on Aziraphale's hands, pretending he didn't notice the angel's gaze. Last of all, the demon applied a smooth layer of clear polish onto Aziraphale's nails to prevent them from chipping and blew gently to dry it, before sitting back to admire his handiwork, “Best leave it out of the water for a moment, let it dry,” he said, before moving around to the other side and repeating the process with the angel's other hand.

When he was done, Aziraphale's eyes were sleepy, finally half-lidded and relaxed. Crowley gave his hand a little squeeze and left it sitting bonelessly on the rim of the tub.

“Is it all right if I wash your hair now, angel?” He practically whispered.

“Yes...Master,” Aziraphale murmured, his voice the most like him that Crowley had heard yet. The demon smiled at him fondly.

He moved up to behind Aziraphale's head and coated his hands in green shampoo that smelled like crisp apples—always reminded him of the Garden—before reaching to run his hands through Aziraphale's curly white hair, massaging the gel into his scalp. The angel actually let out the tiniest little contented noise as he did so, and Crowley's heart leaped—maybe this softness really would work—he could bring Aziraphale back.

When Aziraphale's hair was well and thoroughly shampooed, Crowley whispered, “Rinsing now—keep your eyes closed, angel.” Aziraphale obliged as the demon miracled himself a bucket of clean, warm water and rinsed all the suds out of the angel's hair, making sure that not a single bit ran into his eyes.

Finally, Aziraphale was all clean, and practically asleep, still mostly hidden underneath the mountain of bubbles. Crowley sat to his side again and squeezed one of his newly manicured hands, “Angel—you have to get out of the bath before you get all pruny,” he made sure his voice reflected the fond smile he wore. He wanted to reach out and ruffle the angel's damp hair, but refrained as Aziraphale's blue eyes fluttered open.

For a moment, less than a heartbeat, there was nothing but soft contentment in his gaze—the same look Crowley had seen on his angel's face so many times when they were all cozied up in the bookshop together—but then the mirrors slammed back down and Aziraphale murmured the subservient, “Yes, Master.”

Crowley didn't let go of Aziraphale's hand as the angel rose, but let him use the appendage for balance as much or as little as he needed—which was good when Aziraphale almost slipped as he stepped out onto the tiled floor, clutching Crowley's hand to avoid taking a nose dive. 

“Mind how you go, angel,” Crowley smiled at the words, carefully assisting the angel to regain his balance. For a beat, Aziraphale stared at him before lowering his eyes again, “Yes, Master.”

Crowley sighed internally and let go of the angel to retrieve the stack of clothes and towels on the counter. He'd miracled up the pajamas he'd never seen Aziraphale wear but always imagined he would—soft flannels in lavender and silver, warm and comfortable and plaid, of course. He couldn't bear to see the angel unclothed any more. Not only because it felt like a huge violation of Aziraphale's privacy, but also partially because it made the black metal collar fastened tight around his throat stand out. 

Crowley made a mental note to figure out how to get that off, but unfortunately he was pretty sure only the demon who put it on or a Lord of Hell, could get it off. He was neither of those things, and the demons who were probably wouldn't be amenable to do so...at least not without the proper motivation. Things to ponder at a later time.

“There you are, angel,” Crowley proffered the stack of fabric to Aziraphale—who didn't take them at first, just glanced between the pajamas and Crowley's face.

“Master?”

For a moment, Crowley's nerves overtook his voice, “I wasn't sure about the colors—they felt like you, though, so I hope they'll do. I know you always preferred real clothes over miracled ones, but, given the circumstances...” Crowley realized he was rambling and trailed off with a, “You looked cold...”

“Thank you, Master.” Aziraphale gave him a quick glance from under his pale eyelashes and then went back to staring at the clothes, “It's just...most Masters don't allow their slaves clothing at home.”

Crowley's eyes glinted and he mentally added another layer of torture to whoever had done this to his angel. Maybe defenestration—he'd always liked that word and the satisfying accompanying shatter of window glass.

“Well I do—can't have you freezing all the time, angel. Get dressed.” He didn't really want to make the last statement a command, but he also wanted Aziraphale warm and comfortable, for Somebody's sake.

Aziraphale finally took the clothes and towel, with an inclination of his head and the ubiquitous, “Yes, Master.”

“Come out when you're ready,” Crowley said, and quickly made his escape, closing the bathroom door behind him.


	4. High Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of my pre-written chapters so we'll just have to see where we go from here...

As soon as he was out of Aziraphale's sight, Crowley collapsed against the wall, clenching his fangs, and felt hot, burning rage boiling inside his chest. How dare they hurt his angel, how dare they strip away all the pieces that had made him Aziraphale, and leave him that empty, heartbreaking creature in the bathroom? He glanced behind him and shuddered all the way through his body, a movement that was much more reminiscent of his former serpent self.

In fact, Crowley only just resisted hissing, his old snake habits rising up out of the mire of his emotions. He only resisted because the angel might hear. Instead he sighed, deeply, and dragged clawed hands down his face, leaving several scratches which he promptly healed so that they barely left any marks. After one more deep breath, he pushed himself off the wall and headed towards his previously (but no longer) empty kitchen.

...

When the bathroom door opened and Aziraphale timidly poked his head out, he was greeted by the smell of afternoon tea—toast and biscuits and macaroons and teacakes and chamomile tea itself whistling on the stove. The little breakfast table was dressed for two, with a set of china Crowley had brought back from Earth—all smooth black pottery with tiny details of red patterns that almost looked like his tattoo if you squinted just right. 

Crowley himself was at the stove, and smiled as he heard the angel come in. He hefted the matching teapot towards the table and gestured with it at the little cups set there, “Cream and sugar, Aziraphale?” He let his eyes briefly glide over the angel, now that he didn't feel so embarrassed to be doing so. The pajamas looked...well not nice per se, but definitely comfortable. If nothing else, they gave Aziraphale buttons to nervously play with, a habit Crowley remembered from Earth.

“Um...yes, please, Master.” He didn't really look up much from the floor as he said this, only carefully peering through his eyelashes at the demon.

Crowley tried not to mind, and poured the tea, gesturing for Aziraphale to sit at the chair pulled out from the table, “You really don't have to call me 'Master'--Crowley is just fine.”

“That would be improper familiarity for a slave,” Aziraphale recited quickly, but his expression was nervous.

“All right,” Crowley would back off on that for now: he honestly couldn't deny the tiny thrill that the word 'Master', said in Aziraphale's voice, gave him. He blinked his golden eyes quickly though to stuff that thought away again. None of that right now.

“Eat.”

Aziraphale looked down at the display of tiny delicacies laid out in front of him, and then back at Crowley, “Any...any that I want, Master?” His voice held a hint of awe.

“Any that you want, angel,” Crowley almost added, 'But not too many or you'll get sick' before remembering that was an Earth thing, and that it would undoubtedly just cause Aziraphale more anxiety at the moment. Best to just let him enjoy himself for now.

Aziraphale gazed down at the platters before daintily picking up a biscuit with blue and white icing and biting into it. Instantly his face took on an expression of pure bliss—his eyes fluttered closed as he savored the delicately spun sugar. 

Crowley had always enjoyed watching Aziraphale eat, but this was an experience on a whole new level—this was an Aziraphale who hadn't enjoyed confections in Satan-only-knew how long, and might not remember it at all, and so his reaction to each and every item on the tray was unique and precious. His little eyebrow raise at the crunch of the toast, his pale eyelashes fluttering on his cheeks as he bent to sip the tea, the little noises of contentment he made at the first bite of anything particularly delicious. 

Crowley, meanwhile, only sipped his tea—his had significantly more than a shot of whiskey in it, which he needed or else he was shortly going to start screaming—and watched his angel eat.

Eventually, Aziraphale started slowing down. His eyelids drooped and his demeanor faded from staunchly proper to full-and-comfortable. It was odd to see the angel actually get tired, but Crowley supposed the collar (and the stress of living as he had been) probably had something to do with it—as well as the fact that he didn't know the last time that Aziraphale had been able to rest in safety. 

A minute or two after Aziraphale had taken his last pastry, Crowley asked, softly, “All done, angel?”

Aziraphale glanced up, startled out of his reverie, a look of guilt darting across his face, “Oh...yes, Master, thank you.”

“I hope it was to your liking.”

“It was lovely...” Aziraphale almost smiled, but it faded back into passivity as Crowley stood, once again offering his hand—always letting the angel choose whether to take it, “May I show you to your room, angel?”

Aziraphale stood too, swaying just a little bit, and took Crowley's hand, but the demon could see that there was a kind of deep resignation in his movements, as if he was being taken to a dark fate he'd long since come to terms with...

The room Crowley had originally set up for whatever angel he wound up with was pretty small, and he hadn't changed that now that he knew his angel was Aziraphale—small and cozy, a little nest of warm comfort for his angel. But he had updated the decor—plain spread on the bed became tartan, shelves appeared along the walls (although they didn't yet have books), and the lights were older styled, stuck in the 1950s. 

“Here you are, Aziraphale,” Crowley stepped in, letting go of the angel's hand and gesturing to the room, “We'll get you some books in here eventually.” He glanced back at the angel, “What do you think?”

Tentatively, Aziraphale stepped into the room, staring, before shooting a look at Crowley, “It's...it's just...mine? Just for me? You don't...”

Crowley interrupted him before he could finish that thought because he might actually have to light something on fire if he heard what he was pretty sure the angel was going to say, “Just yours, angel. My room's at the end of the hall if you need anything. But for right now, just get some rest, all right?”

“Yes...Master.”

Crowley nodded and turned to go, “Come find me when you've rested.” He paused at the door, looking back and smiling fondly, “Good night, Aziraphale,” and left, pulling the door shut behind him.

...

Crowley hated to admit it, but he'd added one more bonus item to Aziraphale's room—a video camera. Not for any nefarious purpose—he really didn't want to intrude on the angel's privacy and doing so made him feel squicky, even for a demon—but he honestly wanted to make sure Aziraphale didn't hurt himself. The angel was so obviously not all there that Crowley had to worry some about something in him snapping fully. Thus, the palm-sized screen he pulled out of his jacket pocket as he made his way to his office. The room was a perfect copy of his room in the Mayfair flat down to the throne and safe behind his Mona Lisa sketch. 

Collapsing into his ostentatious chair, he watched the angel settle in.

At first, Aziraphale was tense, standing still, like he expected Crowley to pounce back into the room at any moment. But as the minutes ticked by with no sounds from the hall, his posture slowly relaxed and he began to actually take note of his surroundings—the first real interest in his environment he'd shown, aside from the food. Aziraphale brushed fingertips across the empty bookshelves, and stroked a hand up the soft tartan bedspread before slowly sinking down into the bed.

Crowley had to smile at the angel's slightly startled expression as he basically sank into the plush mattress—the demon had made it the most comfortable bed he could dream of (and he was known for have a very good imagination). Apparently the angel agreed because it really didn't take him too long to cocoon himself under the down coverlet and feather pillows.

Once the angel was resting, Crowley got up. As much as he wanted to just watch Aziraphale sleep—he never wanted to take his eyes off the angel ever again—he had Things To Do. And some people were going to start paying the price for Aziraphale's glassy eyes.


	5. While Aziraphale Slept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley investigates

Crowley stalked through the hallways of Hell like a vengeful shadow, his palm screen in his pocket and set to vibrate if it detected any movement from Aziraphale. He delighted in watching the lesser demons dart out of his way. He may not be a Prince or a Duke, but at this point he carried enough clout that nobody would bat an eye if he decided to immerse some unimportant peon in Hellfire just for, well, the Hell of it, and said unimportant peons knew it.

The first thing was to find that garrulous round demon who had kept the angels in cages. Fortunately, said rotund demon was back behind his preposterously large desk in his office, where Crolwey had first encountered him several hours previously. His distaste for the demon had only increased, but the little demon—whose desk placard, Crowley noticed vaguely, read Philotanus—seemed relieved to see him...at least at first.

“Master Crowley!” He squeaked, and waved a stack of pages in Crowley's direction, “You left without any of your paperwork finished--” Crowley practically snatched the papers out of Phil's grubby little hands and paged through them. 

The majority of it was legal jargon drawn up by Hell's enormous team of expert lawyers (since all the really good ones always seemed to end up down here), and was designed entirely to make everyone's lives miserable—after all, nothing really needed to be filled out in triplicate anymore. That's what copy machines were for. But there were other pages too, which made the muscles in Crowley's jaw tense.

A page introducing the Angelic Relocation Program mentioned “angel slaves” (Crowley felt like he'd been socked in the gut reading the words in print) and how they should be at the constant beck and call of their demonic Masters. And the next page—Crowley felt his hackles rise—described what angels could be used for. The list was...extensive and disturbing and Crowley couldn't believe that even the basest of demons could do that to a more-or-less innocent soul. 

Yes, Hell was based on punishment. But it was supposed to be just punishment, punishment reflecting and due to a crime—after the ridiculous punishment from Heaven just for asking questions back in the beginning, Hell's demons had an obsession with justice.

This wasn't just. This was torture—torture, apparently, solely for pleasure's sake and the very thought of it made Crowley want to flood all of Hell with the Holiest of Holy Water—not that he had any of that anymore...

But it didn't get better. There were also pages on expected behaviors—and what one ought to do to correct misbehavior. As much as Crowley wanted to throw the pages back in Phil's face, he knew he would have to read and memorize the whole thing, so that, maybe, he could understand Aziraphale's reactions and know what to avoid. 

And then there was the last page. The one which began with the title The Principality Aziraphale, Former Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and followed it with a picture of a wide-eyed Aziraphale, staring out from the page with a frightened expression, and...nothing else. Everything else on the entire page was redacted, drawn through with thick black ink, which Crowley knew that no demonic miracle could erase.

Crowley realized right about then that Phil had been babbling on the entire time he'd been there and he'd been very effectively tuning him out. But now, as his thoughts returned to the real world, he realized that the whiny noise of Phil's never-ending commentary was giving him a migraine.

Barely even thinking, Crowley shot his arm out and grabbed Phil by the flaps of skin on the front of his neck. With supernatural strength, he dragged the bug-eyed demon across his desk until they were nose-to-nose, Crowley's eyes glowing with a molten-gold light.

“Master Crowley! I must protest--” His voice was cut off in a croak as Crowley adjusted his grip.

“Lisssten. Very carefully.” Crowley hissed. Phil opened his mouth to say something and Crowley snapped, “I sssaid LISTEN.” Phil shut his mouth and nodded as best he could under the circumstances.

“Thisss angel. Aziraphale.” Crowley shoved the last page of the documents at Phil, “Why is this all redacted?”

Phil stared at him, and Crowley grit his teeth, “You can ssspeak now.”

“It's orders from the top, m'lord. They said all personal information on that angel was on a need to know basis only, and mos' demons really don't need to know--” He stopped talking as Crowley shook him and leaned in closer.

“Whossse. Ordersss.”

“M...m'lord, I'm not supposed to say--”

Crowley smiled, and it was not a nice smile—it showed far too many teeth and far too little mirth, “Do you know how much time I ssssspent on earth?”

“M...many centuries, m'lord...”

“Indeed. And in all those centuriesss,” Crowley leaned closer, despite the rank smell emanating from Phil's skin and breath, and reigned in his hissing, “I watched the absolutely astonishing things humans did to each other. The tortures they invented that make what we do here in Hell seem simply mundane. And so many of them I never got to try out,” he was bluffing here, but Phil didn't need to know that, “Oh...the things I could do to you...” his voice had petered out to a whisper now, and Phil was panting, his eyes wild and frightened. “So. You would do well to tell me what I want to know. And maybe, maybe, I won't find a nice Iron Maiden to lock you up in the for the next thousand years.”

Phil let out a little squeal—he didn't know what an Iron Maiden was, but it sounded unpleasant, and he'd heard stories of Master Crowley's exploits on earth among the humans. He most certainly didn't know that Crowley had specifically spread those rumors in order to boost his reputation, “Yes, yes, okay, m'lord, let me find the files, please.”

Crowley practically shoved Phil back across the desk, and the round demon quickly dug into a drawer, only moments later emerging with a small sheaf of papers, “These...these are all the records we have here, m'lord.”

Crowley seized the papers and glanced through them. There wasn't much more information, here: mostly memos regarding angel transportation and containment—notes that Aziraphale was to be kept separate from other angels, that his records should be kept confidential, that he was generally regarded as 'too compliant' to be of much use. But what was much more important was the set of signatures at the bottom. 

The set of three signatures on the bottom.

“Fuck.” Crowley muttered under his breath, and turned on his heel, leaving Philotanus cowering behind his desk. This was going to be more difficult than he'd thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can probably guess whose signatures they are...if not, we'll find out soon.


	6. Research

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's continued work while Aziraphale rests. And also breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here I am FINALLY posting something again. I think I shall try to write one chapter at least every couple of days now that I have a lot more time. I want to get this story done so that I can start posting the next ones!

Of course it had to be those three. Literally the three demons in all of Hell who most disliked him and who were least likely to do him any favors. For Somebody's sake, even Satan himself would be more likely to listen to a plea from Crowley than them. 

At this point, pretty much everyone in Hell knew at least some tale of those three. Two Dukes of Hell—rumored to have been among the most vicious and bloodthirsty fighters during the last war, cutting down ranks of angels like they were saplings—and one Very Recently Fallen angel. Who, truth be told, was probably the mastermind behind this whole thing, because there was no way Duke “What's a Computer” came up with anything this insidious and clever.

Crowley hissed in aggravation under his breath, an old reaction from his serpent form. This really wasn't what he'd signed up for. He'd thought he could make a few minor demons wilt and go weak with his powerful stare and then someone would at least give him information—but no apparently even that was going to take some kind of actual plan which he just wasn't prepared to come up with right now. Not when all he wanted to do was count Aziraphale's breaths and make sure that his angel didn't vanish from under his nose again.

Aziraphale.

Crowley quickly pulled his palm computer out of his jacket—and sighed with relief to see that the lump that was Aziraphale was still nestled under the down covers, apparently deeply asleep. He couldn't help the tiny little fond smile that ghosted across his face. He'd never gotten to see the angel sleep when they'd been on Earth: he wasn't even sure Aziraphale ever had slept. The angel had always had better things to do, and he'd never run away from things when he'd gotten into a tough spot.

Not like Crowley had. 

The demon bit back the flood of guilt, the idea that maybe, if he hadn't spent so much time running from his problems, running from his emotions, then maybe...maybe somehow Aziraphale wouldn't have disappeared in the first place.

But now was no time for worrying about that. Now was the time for a Plan, one which deserved a capital letter.

First priority—well that was always Aziraphale wasn't it? And while the collar and the lack of information were both definite Problems, the more immediate one to address was what Crowley was going to do with the angel once he woke up. Something to make the angel feel safe, comfortable, and maybe encourage him to come back to himself...

Crowley snapped his fingers, both from the idea and, simultaneously, creating said idea in a room that had only sort of existed before he'd thought about it. There. That was done.

He glanced back at the palm computer, biting his lip. Crowley wanted to go home and fuss over the angel, but right now that wasn't going to help anybody. Right now he needed to see if there was any way to get his information that didn't involve going through the three demons whose signatures blazed on the bottom of the sheaf of papers he was still carrying.

With one last regretful glance at the image of his snoozing angel, Crowley stuffed the screen back in his coat, squared his shoulders, and set off to run a quick errand (can't forget, musn't forget), and then make for the Library—maybe there would be some information there.

…

Many hours later, Crowley was regretting his decision. Despite the remarkable help of a young demon named Sylvester, who seemed to know every part of the library inside and out, he hadn't found any solution to his problem. Or much history of the angel predicament whatsoever.

“Well it's only happened in the last few years, you know,” Sylvester commented as he set a few more books on Crowley's table, “And the Library—we deal in history.” The young demon shrugged, “The angels aren't really history yet. They're present.”

“But there's no documentation—no plans? No ideas? Nothing but vague numbers—and of course no imaginative anything...” Crowley sighed and rubbed a hand across his face.

“Not much, sorry sir. You know demons don't have much of an imagination—honestly it's a miracle we came up with this mad plan in the first place.” Crowley glanced sharply at Sylvester, who ducked his head, and added, “Most of that paperwork's still kept at Head Office. Not been given to us Librarians for public dissemination yet.” Crowley could hear the grumble in Sylvester's voice, “Not that it's our job to handle information or anything...”

Crowley was about to agree, but his coat pocket buzzed. In an instant, he whipped out the palm computer—Aziraphale was stirring.

Crowley stood up, a flurry of papers exploding around him, “Sorry must dash! Mind how you go.” And off he disappeared, leaving Sylvester to sigh and mutter about how rude the upper class were as he bent to regather the mess the other demon had left.

It only took a few moments, with miracles, for Crowley to get back to his mansion. By then, Aziraphale had started to emerge from his cocoon of blankets—white tufted hair and bleary eyes, and a soft yawn that had Crowley smiling fondly. 

In the time it took Aziraphale to slide out of bed, pause, and then slowly, cautiously pad across the room to crack open the door, Crowley had miracled himself a new, clean set of clothes, re-gelled his hair, and was standing in the kitchen, listening partially to the crackle of bacon and eggs in the frying pan, and partially to the soft tread of his angel coming down the hall.

He was aware of Aziraphale standing in the door for awhile, but didn't look up from breakfast until the angel made a noise, “Um...good...good morning, Master?”

Crowley made sure to perfectly compose his face into a gentle smile before looking up at his angle, “Hello Aziraphale! Did you sleep well?”

The angel looked a little taken aback about being asked such a thing, but answered quietly, “Yes, Master. Um...how long...how long was I asleep for?”

“Oh...uh...” Crowley threw a glance at the clock in his hall—he had no idea how long he'd been banging his head against books in the Library, “About 12 hours? Give or take?”

“So long...! I'm sorry, I didn't mean...”

“Angel,” Crowley sighed fondly, “Don't apologize for that. Obviously you needed the rest. You look much better.” He really did too. The deep shadows under Aziraphale's eyes had lessened somewhat, making him look far less haunted. As Crowley was noticing this, he also took note of the way Aziraphale's nose twitched—damn his heart that was adorable—as he smelled the delicious scents coming off the skillet.

“Breakfast, angel?”

“Oh...” Aziraphale fussed a bit with his sleeve, “Master, I'm supposed to be the one working for you...” And dammit he'd totally forgotten to read through all the rules still—he'd been so preoccupied with finding new information that he hadn't looked at what he already had.

“Naw, it's all right angel,” Crowley flipped the bacon and eggs onto a plate, and turned to face Aziraphale, “I want to take care of you, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale looked at him a little quizzically before finally nodding like he understood something, “If that is what you wish, Master.”

And for now, Crowley supposed, that would be enough. As long as Aziraphale would let him take care of him without fussing or worrying too much—at least then his angel wouldn't be hurting physically. He set the plate in front of Aziraphale, “Eat up, angel. If you want more, just ask.”

He had a feeling that Aziraphale wouldn't but he would keep offering nonetheless. 

If nothing else, it was so nice to be able to watch Aziraphale eat again. Crowley had forgotten how much he had been fascinated by it for all those thousands of years. The little nibbles the angel would take, carefully blowing on his eggs to make sure they weren't too hot—even now, old habits showed through, as Aziraphale took the napkin by his plate without thinking and dabbed daintily at his lips as he finished—and flushed, apparently suddenly aware of Crowley's intense gaze.

“Is something wrong, Master?”

“No...” well that was a lie if there ever was one, but never mind. “I was just...remembering.”

“Something nice?”

“What?” That question caught Crowley off guard.

“What you were...remembering. Was it nice? It's just...you had this look on your face...” Aziraphale suddenly paled again, like he realized what he was saying, “Not...not that it's any of my business, I'm sorry for prying, Master.” He ducked his head, staring at the table.

“No. No, angel—like I told you,” Crowley couldn't prevent himself this time; he reached out to gently brush under the angel's chin and coax his head up so their eyes met—glassy gray blue and lustrous yellow, “You don't have to apologize for being you.” He pulled his hand back, and nodded, “And it was...it was something nice. To remember.”

“I'm glad,” Aziraphale's lips barely moved, and, had Crowley been human, he wouldn't have heard the words, but as it was, he felt a renewed flutter of hope in his heart that his angel really was still in there. That it would all be all right in the end.

But after a moment, Aziraphale broke the gaze, and looked back at the table, “Should I wash up, Master?”

“Don't bother,” Crowley snapped his fingers and all the dishes vanished to wherever they lived when he didn't need them, “I have a much better task for you.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale looked worried, and Crowley's heart plunged again, but he persevered.

“I promise, angel,” Crowley offered his hand to Aziraphale, “You'll love it.”


	7. Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gives Aziraphale something, and Aziraphale tries to return the favor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I'm actually posting like I said I would.

Aziraphale hesitated longer than Crowley would have liked, especially after everything that had happened yesterday, but finally did take the demon's hand. His skin was already smoother and softer, thanks to the treatment Crowley had done yesterday, and the demon absentmindedly traced a thumb over the back of the angel's hand as he turned to lead him down the hallway to a room that had only sort of existed previously. Now, there were two huge polished oak double doors, carved intricately with scenes that Crowley didn't have to look at to know intimately—an apple tree and a serpent, two winged figures on a great wall, one sheltering the other from the impending rainstorm. 

Here, Crowley let Aziraphale's hand to pause for a moment, glancing surreptitiously at the angel, before moving to throw open the door with a flourish—he'd always been good at being dramatic—to reveal...

Books.

Hundreds and hundreds of books—all of Crowley's own collection (he hadn't had any before Aziraphale vanished, and then he'd found himself suddenly rather fond of them) and a large set of new ones he'd miracled from Somewhere Else earlier when he'd thought of it. 

“I've found myself in possession of quite a large number of books, as you can see—they're quite a mess and I had hoped you might find a way to organize them.” Crowley dared a glance back at the angel to find him staring in awe, mouth open slightly, like the couldn't take it all in, “Aziraphale? Do you—do you like it?”

It was like his questioning voice broke a spell—the angel practically leaped at him, throwing his soft, warm arms around him, and pressing their lips together.

Aziraphale was kissing him.

Aziraphale was KISSING him.

For a few seconds, Crowley's brain completely shorted out: there was literally nothing in the demon's mind but static and the continued repetition of those four words. 

Aziraphale was kissing him.

This was what he'd wanted, even if he hadn't been able to admit it at the time, for hundreds of years while they were on Earth. They'd always been...well they'd had the Arrangement and before that they'd been best friends for thousands of years (even if Aziraphale only called it 'fraternizing'), but especially later on he'd always wanted more, and now, here, finally, Aziraphale was the one to start it, the one to give him what he'd desired for so long.

But there was something wrong here. Slowly, Crowley's brain returned from his haze to hear what Aziraphale was whispering, “Thank you, Master—thank you so much...” over and over, as the angel's hands traced down his spine, lower and lower, to slip fingers into the belt loops around the top of Crowley's skinny black jeans.

Alarm bells started going off in the demon's mind. This wasn't right. This wasn't his Aziraphale. His Aziraphale would never have just jumped at him, never be going this fast. After all, it was his angel who had spoken those devastating words to him so many years ago, “You go too fast for me Crowley...”

“Angel...” Crowley started to protest, but his words were lost as Aziraphale covered his mouth with another kiss, and more words.

“Please—Master, let me show you how thankful I am, properly...” His voice was breathy, full of some kind of dark promise that was so very NOT Crowley's Aziraphale. But damn if he didn't WANT his Aziraphale to have said something like this.

“Angel. This isn't...this isn't you.” Slightly more insistent.

“Hm?” But Aziraphale didn't stop. Instead he stole Crowley's breath in one more deep kiss—pushing the demon up against the wall of the library—before sliding down so that he was on his knees in front of Crowley, looking up at him with lidded eyes, flushed cheeks, and soft lips. Crowley would have Fallen (or Sauntered Vaguely Downwards) all over again just for that look—if it didn't absolutely and completely destroy him at the same time. What made it worse was that he could feel himself reacting to it, and by the look on the angel's face, he knew it too...

“No!”

Crowley shoved Aziraphale one way and dove sideways simultaneously so that they both ended up in heaps of limbs on the shag rug of the room, both breathing heavily for different reasons. It took a moment for the demon to regain control of himself, and the instant that he did, he looked up and met Aziraphale's gaze—and that nearly caused his heart to break.

Aziraphale's eyes were swimming with tears, his face looked like he was about ready to completely break down, and as soon as he saw Crowley looking his way, he started speaking, words clawing their way out of his throat, “I'm so sorry—I thought that's what you wanted, Master, I didn't mean to do something wrong what did I do wrong I thought that was what you wanted you gave me such nice things I wanted to show you that I deserve them I wanted--”

That was about when Crowley threw his arms around the angel's shaking shoulders as Aziraphale completely dissolved into deep, wrenching sobs.

“Shh...shh...it's okay, angel. Just breathe.” Crowley followed his own advice and took a few deep breaths, trying to figure out what to do as Aziraphale sniffled into his shoulder.

They stayed like that for several minutes as Aziraphale cried himself out, Crowley gently stroking his back and making as many reassuring noises as he could think of. Finally, though, Aziraphale quieted, until the only sound in the room was the ticking of the cuckoo clock on the wall and Aziraphale's occasional whimpers. 

“There you go,” Crowley slowly released the angel, letting him sit up and wipe a sleeve across his damp eyes, “You're all right. I think...” he fished in a pocket to produce a red silk handkerchief, “There you go.”

“I'm...I'm sorry, Master,” Aziraphale stuttered, taking the proffered handkerchief in shaking hands. “I just...I thought...” His nervous habit reemerged again as he tugged on the sleeve of his pajamas.

“I know.” Crowley took another deep breath—although he didn't need to, of course—and reminded himself that he REALLY had to read that information booklet if he was going to be of any use at all in this mess, “I know, Aziraphale.”

He reached out to take the angel's hands in his, “Look at me?” Aziraphale obeyed instantly. “Aziraphale. I hope, for Satan's sake that you don't remember me telling you this, but there was a time when—that—was exactly what I wanted from you. But right now, you're not yourself, angel, and even I, a demon, could never let myself be forgiven if I took advantage of you right now.” Crowley shook his head, and squeezed the angel's hands lightly, “I got you these books, this library, because I hoped it would make you happy. There was no ulterior motive—and you don't need to thank me more than just saying it, and enjoying the books. That's all I want, right now. All right?”

Aziraphale studied him for a moment, and for half a heartbeat, almost so fast that he thought he was imagining it, Crowley thought that he saw the barrier in Aziraphale's eyes drop. But then the mirrors were back, and the angel simply whispered, “Yes...Master.”

“Yes. All right then.” Crowley stood, pulling Aziraphale with him, “So. Um.” He let go of Aziraphale and ran one hand through his hair, gesturing at the shelves with the other, “This is all yours. Organize it how you like—and read whatever you want too. I don't really have time to do much reading and I'd love to hear you tell me the stories you find.”

“Yes, Master,” the response was dutiful, but there seemed to be slightly more happiness in it than usual. 

“Oh!” Crowley snapped his fingers, “And I almost forgot—wait one moment angel.”

The demon disappeared down the hallway and reappeared almost instantly, holding a garment bag, “This is for you too—can't really have you wandering around in your pajamas all the time. I'm not sure the sizing is right,” he'd done it from what he remembered of Aziraphale's measurements when they were on earth, and was fairly certain that the angle had lost a considerable amount of weight since then, “But hopefully you like it.” 

Crowley handed the garment bag to Aziraphale, who looked down at the back and then back at Crowley almost expectantly, like he was considering kissing him again. Crowley, feeling like there was just so much awkward tension in the air, promptly backed up towards the door, “I'll leave you to it then. Lunch will be at noon,” and then vanished, closing the door behind him and leaving Aziraphale to his books.


	8. Learning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit from Aziraphale finally--could it possibly be a metaphor?  
> And Crowley reads his paperwork and is not happy with what he finds.

For several minutes after Crowley darted out of the room, Aziraphale just stood and stared, arms full of garment bag, surrounded by stacks of disorderly books. He didn't even bat an eyelash—didn't even have to breath. Finally, though, he slowly walked over to the nearest chair—an enormous overstuffed gray armchair—and draped the garment bag over it. With slightly trembling fingers, he unzipped it to find a gray 3-piece tweed suit, complete with bow tie and tartan collar. His face clearly showed that this was not what he was expecting. 

Every piece of the suit was perfectly ironed and pressed, the fabric obviously real and not just miracled up out of someone's imagination. This caused him another few moments of starting, interspersed with furtive glances at the door like he expected Crowley to jump back in...but this only lasted a short while before he slowly shrugged off his pajamas and began dressing himself in the suit.

His fingers expertly did up the complicated buttons and ties, and smoothed the slightly billowy fabric down. The suit fit his height perfectly, like it had been tailor-measured, but it was a bit too large around his middle. Nonetheless, sliding over the large mirror mounted on the wall between bookshelves—he looked...normal. Whatever normal meant. The high collar and bow tie nearly hid the dark band of metal around his throat, and the long, warm sleeves took more of the chill out of his bones. His cheeks were still tear-stained, but upon reaching into one pocket, he found a soft plaid handkerchief which he scrubbed across his face. There. Quite proper.

With just the slightest of snappy nods, Aziraphale turned on his heel to get to work on the library books: if that was the only thing his master wanted, he'd do it perfectly.

…

Crowley had initially just collapsed into a heap outside the library doors—he'd barely been holding it together to give Aziraphale that suit and now he just melted into a demonic puddle of long skinny limbs.

Crowley had gotten very good at Not Showing Emotions since he'd been recalled to Hell, but Aziraphale's very presence was being quite effective at tearing those barriers down. Memories that he'd long ago locked away were bubbling to the surface—some pleasant and many not-so-pleasant. He was sure that if he looked in a mirror right now, his normally chalk-pale cheeks would be flushed red—with embarrassment and...other things. 

He'd made and Effort years ago for some purpose or another—he couldn't even remember—but was now very much regretting not having bothered to erase it later. And what was worse was knowing that he'd almost fallen into the, well...Temptation. Satan, but he was a rubbish demon. Giving into the Temptation of a brainwashed angel. He almost barked a laugh before remembering that Aziraphale would certainly hear him.

Crowley sighed and dragged his hands across his face—a gesture that was apparently becoming quite common for him now. 

All right. Enough musing about That. He needed to read that pamphlet NOW, before something else happened, and he fouled up enough to loose Aziraphale forever.

He sinuously drew himself up and, with a glance at the library doors (he wanted to just stay here, but if Aziraphale happened to poke his nose out, Crowley imagined he'd be rather startled to find the demon lurking), he sauntered down the hallway back to his office. 

Properly enthroned in his chair, Crowley riffled through the sheaf of papers, sorting out the things that were either too vague (yes he understood how Hell ran and how fucking slavery worked thank you) or just there to make it seem like there was more paperwork than there actually was (he hated lawyers). 

What he had left at the end was the description of the history of the program, the non-classified reports on Aziraphale (not much there but some), and the standard 'guidelines' that went with being a demon who had an angel.

He couldn't even stomach to look at that last one right now, even though he knew it was probably the most important, but he would start at the beginning and go from there and see whether he could figure out what his next steps would be. Taking the first set of papers, he flopped back in his chair and began to read.

The history of the Angelic Relocation Program itself really wasn't very surprising. Full of boastful, proud language going on about the amazing victory of Hell over Heaven during the Battle of Armageddon—the Second War—and why, at the end of the war, most angels were...acquired by Hell to serve the purposes of demons. What Crowley mostly took away from that was that, really, demons had no idea what to do with what were essentially ethereal supernatural prisoners of war, and so, of course, came up with the most degrading, inhumane way to treat most of them.

“Ugh,” he threw the papers onto his desk so that they splayed out, a few pieces drifting to floor, “I can't believe I have to call myself a demon...although I'm sure I wouldn't have expected anything different from the angels if they had won.” He sniffed, “Holier-than-thou—that's what we would have gotten. But they still don't deserve this...” And Aziraphale—kind, gentle Aziraphale who had guarded the Earth with him for thousands of years—he really, really didn't deserve this.

All right. It was only going to get worse, so best get on with it. A quick glance at the clock told him he still had plenty of time before he should figure out what he and Aziraphale would have for lunch—and figure out how he would even act around the angel.

“Well. Maybe this will help that at least.” He muttered, picking up the second two sets of papers. Aziraphale's history and the...guidelines. Crowley couldn't help wrinkling his nose and hissing slightly at that one.

Aziraphale first. Always.

The records only went back to just after the War—although, Crowley immediately noticed that it was, in fact, not directly after the War, but delayed a few weeks. Like Aziraphale hadn't been there right at the end, when most of the others had surrendered and were getting shunted around to all their various new assignments. But, of course, thanks to those three signatures there was no note or information whatsoever on why that was the case. 

Cross that bridge when it was necessary.

Since then, it looked like what Phil had said was true—Aziraphale had gotten shunted around quite a lot. Started out with some higher ups, thought to be rather promising due to his susceptibility to suggestion—Crowley wondered how in Hell that had happened. The Aziraphale he knew had been the most stubborn bastard he'd ever had the pleasure to meet. 

But since then, it seemed that the angel had been, as Phil had said, rather too good. He'd offered no resistance, which Crowley had witnessed first hand earlier that day, and that meant that most demons had lost interest in him rather quickly. No determined looks, no anger behind his shuttered eyes: the notes said, as far as they could tell, Aziraphale was more or less a broken shell of an angel and offered no excitement or “thrill of the chase” (Crowley hissed again without noticing), and, it was expected, would probably spend the rest of his existence more or less being rented out to demons who weren't high-level enough to have their own permanent angelic slave.

Crowley had to pause there, close his eyes, and take a deep breath in through his nose. Otherwise, he was going to just go slamming right through the wall, back to Phil's office or even to see Those Three, without even thinking about it. This described Aziraphale like he was trash, to be used up until he was no longer useful and then thrown away. Garbage, only there for the amusement of demons.

He was already ready to drown someone in Holy Water, and he hadn't even gotten to the last one—the worst one—yet. 

The so-called 'Guidelines.' What demons could do to their slaves. What uses they ought to put them up to. Crowley closed his eyes and tried to swallow down his nausea (he was a demon; demons don't get sick). 

There was no nice way to put them. The introduction was all decked out in flowery language: “so you've found yourself the lucky owner of an Angel! But what exactly does the above-average demon do with such a creature?” And the tone carried throughout, even through the descriptions of the absurd expectations and vicious punishments that the pamphlet assured were “perfectly reasonable for keeping the inferior angels in line.” 

As he read, Crowley couldn't help but imagine his Aziraphale—his beautiful, brilliant angel—having to endure all of this. And, unfortunately, cross-referencing with Aziraphale's history, it rather looked like he had. There were all sorts of punishments available—after all, if there was one area that demons actually had creativity, it was in devising nefarious punishments, huzzah—ranging from physical, which was degrading enough, but then it delved into mind games exclusively meant to annihilate the mental and emotional capabilities—to completely destroy trust in everything and everyone.

No wonder Aziraphale acted the way he did.

There was even a whole thrice-damned section talking about how to begin working with an angel, putting on a front like you were actually on their side, only to wrench everything away again later, just to watch them crumble.

And that...well. 

Crowley had to close his eyes again, but this time it was because they were misting up. Given this—given all of this—maybe there wasn't a chance. He could spend the rest of eternity trying to get Aziraphale to trust him, and still fail, still have the angel worried every single second of every single day that it had all been a ruse, had all been a long and elaborate lie, building him up so high only to tear him down completely.

He threw the guidelines into the waste bucket, where they belonged, and rested his head in his hands. How was he, just one, single, completely rubbish demon, who hadn't even bothered to Fall properly, ever going to save his angel?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly just wanted to thank everyone for their kind notes--they've been so encouraging and have really helped me find motivation to keep writing.


	9. Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pondering from both sides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly shorter chapter because my regular computer, with all my notes for this story, up and died on me, and I haven't been able to fix it yet...

Aziraphale started by sorting the books categorically by fiction and non-fiction—quite a task, especially since many of them were highly subjective as to which of those two categories they belonged in. And it took longer still because, as his Master had requested, he was browsing through the ones that looked most interesting: a title page here, a paragraph there, flipping through some absolutely fantastic illuminations in some truly gorgeous old manuscripts. It took quite some time, and it was noon before he'd even really started.

Aziraphale had been watching the clock starting around 11:45, face blank still, but obviously expecting Crowley to reappear at any moment. But 12 o'clock came and went...and his Master did not appear. 

At noon, Aziraphale stopped working on the books, and instead could be found lurking right next to the great wooden doors, ears pricked, listening for the sound of snakeskin boots on the floors outside. But no sound came. Nor was there a smell of food in the air, or sounds coming from the kitchen down the hall. 

At 5 past noon, Aziraphale started fussing with his buttons.

At 10 past, he started wringing his hands and pulling at his sleeves.

And at quarter past, he wondered if this was some kind of plot. But what? Leave him in a library full of interesting books? It didn't make sense. And his Master had been...upset. Earlier. When he'd given him the suit. Which he hadn't even stayed to see...maybe he was supposed to go find him? Technically his Master had never said to stay here...and he'd given him the suit, after all, so he ought to present it to him.

Aziraphale kept fussing for another five minutes, torn, before finally, with a slow and shaking hand, reaching for the door handle. It took another few seconds until he turned it, the door creaking open just an inch and letting him peer out into the deserted hallway.

Silence. 

Aziraphale tried to see out of the tiny crack in the door, but couldn't make anything else out and so, finally, he pushed the door open more. It swung without a sound on perfectly oiled hinges and revealed...empty hallway. No sign, nor sound, of his Master.

Practically on tiptoe, Aziraphale made his way cautiously down the hallway, keeping a sharp eye on every corner, but this area of the mansion continued to be deserted—and when he finally reached the kitchen, that, too, was completely empty, with no sign of the promised lunch. 

Aziraphale's brow furrowed. Normally, his Masters were either punctual to a tee, or purposefully late to, well...punish him.

But it didn't feel like that this time. He hadn't been left in some dire straits, no pain or exhaustion—just piles of wonderful books. Not much of a punishment.

It was then that Aziraphale noticed the door ajar at the end of the opposite hallway. Just a crack, but there did seem to be some light emanating from it. Carefully, silently, he approached...

…

Crowley had lost track of time. It was as simple as that. He'd gotten wrapped up in his own head—that was something that used to happen to him all the time back on Earth. He'd get lost in thoughts, and look up to see that a century or two had passed without him noticing...

So it was quite a shock to him when Aziraphale suddenly appeared at his door, a wraith dressed in white, especially given how absolutely dead silent the angel was (Crowley hadn't found proper shoes to match his suit yet).

And his suit did make him look properly like the Aziraphale Crowley remembered. Stately, proper, old-fashioned, but somehow fashionable in his own way. It made him look like...well...Aziraphale. Like himself.

“Angel!” Crowley practically jumped out of his chair, and Aziraphale instantly seemed to retreat into himself. Crowley silently cursed.

“I'm sorry if I was being presumptuous, Master; it's just it's quite past noon and I wanted to know if you required sustenance, and to let you see the suit...”

Crowley shot a look at the clock and discovered, to his surprise, that it was, in fact, nearly twelve thirty. “I'm sorry, angel—I completely lost track of time. You must be starving.”

Aziraphale looked rather startled at this thought, and almost robotically began to protest, “No, Master, I'm--”

Crowley hated the fact that he knew, now, some of the reason why Aziraphale had lost so much weight since he'd last seen him, and interrupted the angel, “I insist—it's lunch time, after all, and one always ought to have three square meals a day.” He would certainly ensure that was the case for Aziraphale from now on—and he'd probably try and add in several snacks and teas to that too.

“Won't you join me for lunch, angel? My treat.”

Aziraphale hadn't stopped looking startled since he'd walked in to Crowley's office, and that question seemed only to continue the trend.

But.

But. For just a quick moment, Crowley thought he noticed another phrase on Aziraphale's lips—and he would have sworn by whatever was left of his soul that it included the word 'Paris.'

“What was that, angel?” He tried to keep his heart from leaping up into his throat.

“Oh!”Aziraphale shook his head and straightened up, “Nothing, Master, I'm sorry. Um. Whatever is your desire.”

Crowley sighed internally, but didn't let any emotional reaction to that show. He knew, he knew now, what terrible things his angel had been through, and he knew that he needed time to heal.

“All right then,” the demon carefully made for the door, ensuring that he didn't make any sudden moves (rather easy when one was partially a snake), and offered Aziraphale his arm, “May I say, angel, that you look quite dashing in that suit? I hope you like it—it was a bit of a rush job, but I told the tailor how much you needed it and he made an exception.”

Actually, Crowley had made several death threats, but Aziraphale didn't need to know that.

“It's lovely, thank you Master.” Aziraphale hesitantly took Crowley's arm, but the demon noticed that the pause lasted a shorter amount of time now.

Unfortunately, Aziraphale's arm intertwining with his reminded him of what had happened earlier that morning, the last time Aziraphale had touched him, and Crowley had to repress a shudder from creeping up his spine. It was just...so wrong. So wrong that his angel had been taught that was an appropriate reaction to a gift—that was the ONLY appropriate reaction to a gift.

But no. Not time for that now. Now, he needed to maintain all of his composure, try and think of a plan (despite all that pondering, lost in his thoughts, he was still at a loss), and keep trying to reach his angel.

“What do you fancy for lunch angel?”

“Whatever you desire, Master.” Crowley was pretty sure that, somewhere in Aziraphale's trained voice, there was a double entendre there, but he choose to very forcefully ignore it.

“I'm thinking...crepes.”

“Crepes.” Aziraphale repeated.

Crowley peered out the corner of his eye at the angel. Aziraphale seemed to be pondering something for a moment.

“All right, angel?” Crowley instantly cursed himself for interrupting the angel, since Aziraphale promptly snapped out of his reverie and blinked those still-glassy eyes back at him.

“Oh, yes, Master. I apologize for worrying you.”

Crowley had to close his eyes for a moment, and then quickly responded, “It's all right angel. Come on, now. Let's have lunch.” And keep trying.


	10. Perhaps a Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some time passes, and Crowley comes up with some ideas.

The next few days were nothing short of a monumental balancing act. Crowley was so constantly consumed by planning out every little move he made, everything he said and did, that he barely had time to think about anything else.

After that lunch, where they'd had crepes, Crowley had tried to press Aziraphale a little bit more, see if he remembered anything. And there were moments—there really were MOMENTS where he thought he saw glimpses of his angel there...but they never lasted long enough for Crowley to convince himself they were really real and not just a figment of his overactive imagination.

So he did what he'd promised himself. And kept trying.

He got Aziraphale proper shoes, another suit and several ties, let him take as many books from the library as he wanted into his room, so that the shelves promptly began filling up with neat rows of old books. Crowley dragged out his old record player and put it in the library with his stack of records (and no, they hadn't all turned into the Best of Queen since they'd never been in the Bentley). He'd actually kept with the times and now most of his music was digital now (another fine invention from someone in Hell), but hoped that Aziraphale would find something he liked amongst the old discs. After that, whenever the angel was working in the library, various tunes would waft from behind the doors. Sometimes, Crowley would sit outside the oak doors and mouth along with the words, wondering if Aziraphale was doing the same thing.

The demon had been so hopeful about the mug—you know the one, the white one, with the angel wings on it—which Crowley had originally gotten Aziraphale as a bit of a joke, but which the angel had religiously (ha) used for his tea and cocoa. Its porcelain exterior was smudged, but it had survived the fire, and Crowley had retrieved it form the ashes of the bookshop when he went back, after the Apocalypse, hoping to maybe find something remaining of the angel and spotted its white glint amongst the black remnants of Aziraphale's home.

For a moment, he really had been hopeful. Aziraphale had looked at the mug, when Crowley presented it to him, like it was something long lost that he'd just remembered...but then the expression faded, almost like he was forcing it down, and he just smiled that same placid smile, and thanked the demon for the gift.

Crowley had also, during those first few days, remembered a story that someone—almost undoubtedly Aziraphale if he was being honest—had read to him one Christmas many years ago. In it, a farm hand was tasked with raising the very shy young niece of his grumpy old employer. In order to encourage her to come out of her shell, he talked to her about anything and everything—created an atmosphere of conversation. So that's what Crowley started doing too. Not when Aziraphale was reading, of course. He remembered, even if the angel didn't, what had happened the first (and last) time he'd interrupted the angel's reading. But when they were sitting eating lunch the demon would fill the air with chatter about, well, everything.

The easiest thing was just to tell stories. Crowley would start by reminiscing (“Oh, angel, there was this one time—it was in France I think—not the Revolution, that was much later, but you should have seen their CLOTHES angel, although you probably did at the time”) and then just dive into stories of things and places and events from his—no, from their—history. He tried to keep it light. Food and fashion and silly things people had said and done. There was plenty of darkness in human history, and right now his angel needed no more of that.

Aziraphale mostly just nodded, listening not like he was hearing events which had happened to him, but like it was a mildly interesting story he felt obliged out of politeness to listen to. Frequently, at some point, Crowley would give up with his stories and ask Aziraphale about the books he'd looked at that day.

That was when the angel acted almost like the Aziraphale that Crowley remembered. He would light up as he explained the intricacies of whatever books had captured his fancy for the day, savoring each word and summary like it was a scrumptious dessert. Crowley would rest his head on his hand and just listen, with a soft smile, to the angel talk—it was almost as good as watching him eat.

And Aziraphale had been eating, thank SOMEONE. His cheeks were definitely looking less hollow now: he almost had his cherubic smile back, when he did smile. So there was at least some progress...outwardly.

But his mind stayed locked. And Crowley couldn't figure out why. He'd been trying to devote at least some of his brain power to the question of how to get around Hastur, Ligur, and Michael, but that part of his mind was so frequently distracted by the proximity of Aziraphale that he'd made almost no progress, not even while the angel slept (which he was doing far less frequently now, although it didn't seem to matter since the dark circles under his eyes were still fading more every day).

That wasn't the only thing Crowley was forgetting to attend to. About a week after Aziraphale's arrival, he realized, while lounging dramatically (the only way Crowley knew how to lounge) in his chair, that his wings itched.

It was a very odd feeling, and not easy to describe to one who hasn't had semi-celestial wings stored on another plane that were itching. Crowley hadn't tended to his feathers at all since Aziraphale had come barreling back into his life, and hadn't been fastidious about it before hand—fixing one's wings alone was quite a chore and he wasn't going to let any other demon get their hands on his feathers.

But maybe...maybe this was an opportunity in disguise.

For all Aziraphale's progress, he still hadn't let Crowley even come near touching his shoulders, much less his wings, but the demon could tell that they still bothered him. Sometimes, when the angel was curled comfortably in that big armchair in the library, the demon would watch him shift his back, occasional glimmers of discomfort running across his face, and knew that those mangled feathers must be constantly causing pain to his angel. The demon could feel his hands itch with the desire to fix Aziraphale's wings and take that pain away.

But Crowley wasn't ever, ever going to force Aziraphale to let him heal his wings, no matter how much he wanted to. Maybe, however, if the angel saw that Crowley trusted him that far, he might be willing to extend that trust back.

That was at least some kind of plan, better than Crowley had had in awhile, so he sinuously rose from his throne, and went in search of his angel.

Not that it was a particularly difficult search. Aziraphale was curled up where he spent the majority of his time now: in the armchair in the library, his mug on the little end table next to him, and his reading spectacles (which they both knew he didn't need, but Crowley had gotten for him anyways because Aziraphale reading without his spectacles felt wrong) perched on the very end of his nose.

Crowley had to pause in the doorway for a moment to appreciate the fact that Aziraphale really did now look like himself. The black collar was totally hidden from this angle, and so all he could see was the angel, sitting with his perfectly pressed suit, cocoa, book in hand...just like he had always been on Earth. For half a moment, he could imagine that this was real. Aziraphale was here, was back and fine, not broken, and was just enjoying a book, and in a moment he would look up with those twinkling gray-blue eyes and say “Crowley my dear! Won't you join me?”

But the illusion was shattered when Aziraphale did look up, with blank glassy eyes, and said, instead, “Oh! Master I apologize,” and put aside his book, “Did you need something from me?”

“I was wondering, Aziraphale, if I might ask a favor of you?” Crowley always asked, even though he knew the angel was conditioned to never, ever refuse.

“Of course, Master.”

“I thought, maybe, you could help me with my wings.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to put the next scene in this chapter, but it was far too long. So you'll just have to wait for the next one =)


	11. Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This whole chapter is really just fluff. Because we needed some. And look who might be coming out of his shell a bit...

Aziraphale stared, with his mouth open like a fish, for a solid 5 seconds. 

No Master, EVER, had let Aziraphale near their wings—as far as Aziraphale was aware, angels in general were not allowed to touch demon wings. The feathers were very delicate, and a vengeful angel could easily do a lot of damage in a very short amount of time.

Not to mention that it was just a matter of trust. Even Aziraphale in his current state knew that, deep down in his soul. Wing grooming was something done between two parties who really, absolutely trusted each other, from here to the end of the earth.

So that fact that his Master, now, was asking him...was it a trick? If so, Aziraphale couldn't figure out what the catch would be. Maybe he'd touch his Master's wings and be accused of trying to hurt them? But there was no real choice here, was there? His Master had asked and he must obey, whatever the consequences.

But on the other hand...he hadn't seen Master Crowley's wings since he'd come here. And he wondered what they'd look like, what the feathers would feel like under his fingertips...

So, after those five seconds, Aziraphale shut his mouth with a snap and replied, “Of course, Master.” 

Crowley smiled softly at him and then drifted in to the sofa, his typical choice of seating when he was in the library, reaching to undo the buttons on his black vest. He shrugged out of the silky material, draping it across the arm of the sofa, before pulling his dark gray undershirt over his head, and glancing over his shoulder to realize that Aziraphale was.

Staring.

Quite unabashedly.

Crowley couldn't help a little flush from blooming across his cheeks. Neither of them had been unclothed in front of each other since he'd gotten that suit for Aziraphale, which meant this was the first time Aziraphale had seen him without his shirt on.

The demon spun back around, trying not to feel Aziraphale's stare across the lean muscle in his back, and instead focused on bringing his wings out—and a moment later, there was a WHOOSH and the library was suddenly full of sleek, inky black feathers.

Crowley heard Aziraphale gasp audibly, as the demon knelt on the plush carpeted floor, leaning his arms on the couch and resting his chin on top of them, “What do you think, angel?”

“Your wings are...beautiful...”

Crowley chuckled softly, bringing one wing farther forward so he could see it better, “I don't know about that...” the feathers were definitely not as shiny as they could be, and many were out of place, sticking up so that instead of a smooth veneer finish, he looked like a ruffled hen.

“They are though...Master.” 

He could hear that Aziraphale's voice was closer now, could feel the angel's presence behind him, but he hadn't touched his wings yet. 

“I'm glad someone thinks so,” Crowley settled a little more, purposefully letting his wings relax and splay out behind him, a carpet of feathers.

“Everyone ought to think so, Master,” Aziraphale protested, and finally reached out, just to brush fingertip along some of the smaller covert feathers near Crowley's shoulder blade.

The demon shivered very slightly, not used to the feeling, and he felt Aziraphale draw back, “Was that all right, Master?”

“Yes, angel. I just haven't had anyone else fix my wings in a long time—not used to the feeling.”

“Is it...nice?” Aziraphale stepped back closer again.

“Very.”

Aziraphale seemed to make up his mind at that—Crowley could practically feel the angel's nod even though he was looking the other way—and purposefully buried his hands in Crowley's jet-black feathers, stroking along with the grade.

Crowley promptly began melting into a puddle. His eyes closed at the feeling of Aziraphale's soft, gentle, confidant hands running through his feathers, righting the ones that were crooked, gently pulling out the old ones here and there, with a bit of a twinge but once they were out it felt much better. He was honestly surprised that Aziraphale remembered how to do this so well, but the angel seemed right at home, and Crowley happily drifted into a comfortably content plane, letting the angel work.

Aziraphale was actually somewhat surprised himself. He had thought that he would need Master Crowley to tell him what he needed, but somehow, instinctively, upon seeing the feathers out of place, the angel knew what ought to be done. 

And his Master was obviously pleased with it—the demon was completely relaxed against the sofa, eyelashes fluttering against his sharp cheeks, his wings bonelessly draped. Aziraphale was kneeling in the middle of a carpet of miraculously soft inky black feathers, which smelled like...sandalwood and cherries and midnight with the tiniest hint of ash and brimstone there underneath. It was a scent that was somehow very comforting, and made Aziraphale think the word “home” although he wasn't sure why...

And earlier, watching Master Crowley take off his shirt...Aziraphale had never felt like that with any of his other Masters. Normally, he had to force himself to look at them in that state of undress—but with Crowley he hadn't wanted to look away. He didn't understand it. Not any of this. Not why his Master was letting him touch his wings, not why he'd been given free reign of a beautiful library, not why Master Crowley was continually being so kind, without apparently getting anything back out of it.

In his thoughts, Aziraphale tugged slightly too hard, and Crowley winced.

“Oh! I'm sorry Master, I didn't mean to...”

“Sss'alright.” Crowley shifted slightly and settled again, too relaxed to prevent the hiss from sneaking into his words, “Ssss'nice.”

Aziraphale smoothed his hands soothingly across that spot of feathers again, and moved farther out, to the larger primaries on the far end of Crowley's right wing. Each feather was almost the length of Aziraphale's forearm and Aziraphale had to be careful not to pull too hard or he could muss the perfect symmetry of Crowley's wings.

The demon shifted his wings slightly as Aziraphale worked to make it easier for the angel to access all the particularly tricky spots. As he worked, the deep itch that had been bothering Crowley for days receded and the demon couldn't help humming softly when Aziraphale fixed a particularly bothersome spot.

At some point, as he realized the angel was almost done straightening, he miraculed a little bottle of wing oil, which the angel apparently knew how to use, as he smoothed the shimmering liquid across Crowley's feathers.

Finally, Aziraphale settled back on his heels, admiring his handywork. If Crowley's feathers had looked beautiful before, now they were pools of liquid night, the light shimmering off the cusp of each perfectly arranged feather. Aziraphale was struck with a sudden strange desire to collapse face first in those feathers and just stay wrapped up in them forever, because there he'd be Safe...

He shook his head, unsure where that idea could have come from. It was dangerous to think like that, to become complacent. Nothing good came from that.

“I think that's done, Master.”

Crowley didn't answer for a moment, before finally stretching, his wings rippling like an ocean underneath a pitch dark sky.

“Mmm, that felt wonderful angel.” Crowley carefully folded up his wings, but didn't put them away again. Instead, he turned around, settling on his knees, facing Aziraphale with an earnest expression on his face.

Here it was. The moment this whole plan had hinged on. Not that getting his wings fixed hadn't been absolutely wonderful—but he could have done that himself if he needed. No, the true goal here was this.

“Aziraphale?”

“Yes, Master?”

“Might I...might I return the favor? Can I fix your wings?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shorter chapter, just so I can end on a "cliffhanger" again


	12. Building Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale gets his wings started on.

There was a moment where everything was silent. The angel and the demon just stared at each other; Crowley's piercing yellow eyes searching for something—anything--in Aziraphale's face that would tell him that this was okay, and Aziraphale's glassy gaze looking back, but with eyes that were wide, tinged with what was almost panic.

Crowley wanted to take it back—it practically physically hurt him to see that expression on Aziraphale's face—but he had to hear the answer without pushing the angel one way or another. So instead, he just sat, his wings folded behind him, and waited quietly.

Aziraphale had a lot more going through his mind; he was panicked by indecision. On the one hand—Crowley had looked so relaxed while he had been fixing his wings. He had demonstrated a level of trust in Aziraphale that no other Master had ever done.

But on the other—nothing good ever came of anybody touching his wings. Never, ever. Nothing except pain and humiliation, the words thrown at him often just as wounding as the physical blows to the delicate bones and feathers.

His hands were trembling, and he couldn't make them stop, until Master Crowley reached out and carefully took Aziraphale's hands in his own, gentle but firm grip.

“It will be all right. I swear it to you.” Crowley hesitated, and then let go of Aziraphale's hands with his right and proceeded to make a complicated sigil in the air. It didn't fade, but instead formed a fiery symbol full of twists and turns, which hovered in the air as Crowley turned back to meet Aziraphale's eyes.

“I swear it to you on my name that I will not purposefully harm you in any way.”

Aziraphale's eyes widened. He knew what swearing on a name did for them—it was basically a slightly less binding form of a full contract. But the consequences of going against one, while not potentially deadly as breaking a proper contract was, could still be severe.

Master Crowley had shown him so many acts of good faith today—he could hardly go against that. And, Aziraphale reminded himself again, Crowley was his Master after all so he shouldn't even be having this internal argument: it was his duty to say yes.

But his, “All right, Master,” could have been far more reluctant than it was.

At hearing it, Crowley smiled. It was small and nervous, but fully genuine, and definitely tinged with a deep love, “Won't you turn around for me, then, angel?”

Aziraphale obliged, scooting in a semicircle so that his back was to Crowley. He absolutely hated the feeling of powerlessness that action gave to him, and he tried to swallow down that emotion. It definitely helped that Crowley kept talking, soft and mellifluous, “Thank you angel. Do you want me to help you with your suit, or do you have it sorted?”

Aziraphale had to ponder that question for half a moment too—every decision felt difficult today. He wasn't blurting out answers nearly as quickly as he ought to have been, but that's because it felt, really, more and more that Master Crowley actually wanted him to answer truthfully.

“I'd...I'd like a bit of assistance, thank you Master.”

He could sense Crowley settling behind him, as the demon said, “Just let me know what you need.”

Aziraphale wiggled his arms where they'd gotten a bit stuck in his suit jacket, “Just there.”

Crowley deftly assisted in disengaging Aziraphale's trapped arms from the jacket, and proceeded to fold the garment and hang it over the arm of the sofa, where his silk vest still lay as well. 

Aziraphale undid the buttons of his waistcoat, and slipped that off, handing it back to Crowley as well. He got stuck again a bit in his linen undershirt, but with Crowley's help, that too was shortly folded on the sofa.

The angel shivered slightly at the air on his uncovered skin. The library wasn't cold—it was never cold, since he kept a nice crackling fire in the grate all the time he was in here—but it was a bit of a difference compared to when he was wearing all his layers. He felt unprotected...a common feeling, but not a pleasant one.

His Master, however, behaved completely differently than any other Aziraphale had experienced before. Instead of staring at Aziraphale like he was a piece of meat to be devoured, or reprimanding him for shivering, Crowley whispered, “You all right angel?”

“Yes, Master,” Aziraphale breathed deeply. Now came the most difficult part. Actually summoning the courage to manifest his wings.

Crowley settled himself more comfortably behind Aziraphale, once again waiting patiently. He knew how hard this probably was for the angel, and in no way did he want to rush him or force him, however much he wanted to get his hands on the angels wings and miracle away those aches and pains. Instead, he watched the deep rise and fall of the angel's breathing in front of him, and made no moves save to murmur, almost inaudibly, “It's all right angel. It's all right.”

They sat there like that for a few moments, existing in that liminal space between expectation and reality, before Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder and met Crowley's gaze. The demon just gave that same soft smile, the one he'd shown when Aziraphale had first agreed to this...

And a second later, there was a puff of white as Aziraphale's wings appeared.

Crowley gasped.

This was a different gasp from the one Aziraphale had echoed when Crowley's wings had first manifested. That gasp had been of awe at magnificent beauty.

Crowley's was one of dismay.

He'd forgotten, in these last few days, just how bad Aziraphale's wings looked. Especially now, when he could compare the broken, battered feathers to his own oil slick sleek pair—he couldn't even comprehend the maleficence of a creature who could willingly cause such pain.

Aziraphale let out a short, huffing breath, and, wincing slightly, tried to settle his wings out in a way that didn't cause constant twinges of agony to shoot through the misshapen bones; the very sight made Crowley's heart ache, both with sympathy for his poor angel, and with rage at whoever had done this to him.

“Oh, angel,” he whispered, “What did they do to you?”

Very, very, very carefully, he traced one hand down the underneath of Aziraphale's right wing, watching Aziraphale's body language with sharp eyes—he was undeniably tense, but not pulling away into a heap like the last time Crowley had tried this.

“Let me know if it ever hurts too much and I'll stop, all right angel?”

Aziraphale nodded, barely managing a, “Mhmm,” as Crowley tried to figure out where to set to work first.

He finally figured he'd start at the beginning and work outwards, starting by just resting a hand on Aziraphale's back, between his wings. The angel stiffened, but Crowley closed his eyes and focused on sending every bit of calm, relaxed energy that he'd just accumulated from his own wing grooming into the angel: an all encompassing aura of peace and comfort. 

Aziraphale visibly relaxed, and Crowley murmured, “There, that's better. I'll start from the base here and work my way out, all right angel?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale's voice was still strained, but he was trying so hard. Crowley reminded himself to make the angel whatever he wanted for dinner—for the rest of eternity.

Even beginning to fix Aziraphale's wings was a lot of work. First, Crowley had to identify what the actual root issue was—here, at the beginning, it actually didn't appear to be bones quite as much as strained muscles. Probably from the tension of dealing with the pain. Crowley grit his teeth and shoved that thought out of his head as he very, very carefully miracled relaxation into the tense muscles of Aziraphale's wings, letting them droop farther onto the floor and revealing more of what the deeper problems were.

And there were a lot.

The coracoid bones seemed all right—the little ones at the base, where it appeared there was only muscle strain. But moving out, it seemed like nearly every bone had some kind of break—and the radius, the slim bone at the top of the wing, appeared so badly healed that it wasn't even remotely straight.

“Angel--” Crowley murmured, “I'm sorry this is going to hurt for a moment while this gets fixed. You going to be all right?'

Aziraphale nodded stiffly, fisting carpet into his hands and taking a deep breath as Crowley applied the Miracle. There was the sound of the bone snapping back into place and Aziraphale gasped, tensing back up like a prey animal ready to run.

Crowley instantly backed off, “I fixed that one, angel. Are you all right?”

He let Aziraphale breathe for a moment, feeling the question in the moment of whether the angel would let him continue. After a bit, when there was no answer, he carefully got up and moved around to be in front of the angel, searching his face.

Aziraphale's eyes were scrunched closed, and his breathing was shallow and tense.

“Angel?” Crowley whispered again, “Are you all right?”

Aziraphale nodded curtly, but that wasn't enough for Crowley now—not given the rest of the angel's posture, which hadn't changed.

“No, really, angel.” Crowley reached to rest his hand on Aziraphale's, feeling the tendons standing out from how tightly he was gripping the carpet, “I won't keep going unless you're all right.”

It took a few more moments before Aziraphale finally opened his eyes, slowly, slowly relaxing his hands, “I'm...I'm fine, Master.”

Crowley searched the angel's eyes, trying to find the truth behind the glassy finish, “Really, angel? Do you want me to keep going--”

“Yes!” Aziraphale said, almost before Crowley had finished the question. Despite the fact that what Crowley had just done had hurt at first, and it scared the living daylights out of Aziraphale because he'd been dragged right back into the darkness of his past...Crowley hadn't continued. Hadn't berated. He'd stopped, and made sure the angel was okay and, most of all—his wing hurt less now than he could ever remember. It was like finally remembering something you hadn't even realized you'd forgotten, and feeling an incredible intangible relief.

“Yes, please.”

Crowley nodded, “All right. But if it gets too much I'll stop again, all right?”

Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley carefully stepped around the white feathers, his own black wings trailing behind him like a cape, to re-situate himself.

There was a lot to fix. Crowley wasn't sure how long they sat there, him carefully moving through Aziraphale's wings, finding all the bones that had been broken and applying the right miracle. He wished he could just snap his fingers and fix all of this, but with work this delicate on material this ethereal, he'd just as likely make a bigger mess than he'd started with. He wouldn't risk that with Aziraphale. So slow and careful it was.

Several more times he had to stop after a particularly bad moment, when Aziraphale would once again go into the fight-flight-or-freeze mode, and every time Crowley would get up and come round and make sure that the angel was really all right. But every time Aziraphale eventually came back—each time a little quicker than the last. And each time with a little more...Crowley would almost say it was relief in his eyes.

Finally, finally though, Crowley had made a first pass—all the breaks he could find had been fixed. The feathers were still a mess, and Aziraphale's wings were definitely still dingy and not the so-white-they-glowed that he remembered, but progress.

“I think I'm done for the moment angel.” Crowley had come round to the front again, and gently picked up Aziraphale's hands to hold in his own, “You want to try moving them? Let me know how it feels?”

Aziraphale looked up at him and there was a moment when Crowley wasn't sure he would do it—he was so scared of the pain that his broken wings used to cause him.

But then...then there was a flash, just for an instant, of trust. And Aziraphale nodded and slowly, tentatively drew his wings back to him.

The expression on his face—Crowley wished he could have had a camera right then. He wanted to keep that perfect expression forever, look back on it, because it was nothing short of pure joy. 

“It doesn't hurt--” Aziraphale breathed, not even aware that he'd said anything, and Crowley couldn't help a shit-eating grin from spreading across his face.

“Feels better?”

Aziraphale stared up at him in pure adoration, “Thank you—thank you thank you thank you!”

Crowley stood, pulling Aziraphale up with him, “Come on angel, up you go, let's see how they look.”

Aziraphale let himself be pulled up, fluffing out his wings as he did so, and staring over his shoulder in awe. Crowley let him go and watched as the angel practically twirled around, his white feathers streaming out around him and his smile practically luminous.

“A good start, I think,” Crowley nodded, his grin still present, “I'll keep working on them later if that's all right—but I think I could use a drink first.”

Aziraphale stopped spinning around and trotted over to him, “Thank you, Crowley,” and then quickly stood up on his tiptoes and gave him a peck on the cheek before practically dancing out of the room towards the kitchen.

Crowley stood there, stunned for a moment as he put his hand to the spot where Aziraphale had kissed him. This hadn't felt forced—this hadn't been something the angel felt obligated to do. This was something he had WANTED to do.

And it was only then that he realized: that was the first time, since he'd come here, that Aziraphale had called him by his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a longer chapter because you guys have earned it.


	13. Drunken Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically what it says on the label. I needed to write a little bit of angst today.

It took Crowley some moments to recover before he could follow the angel out, his wings still visible and brushing against the back of his legs as he walked. He'd forgotten what that felt like—he so rarely had any reason to display his black feathers.

Aziraphale was already in the kitchen—his former exuberance tampered somewhat, but there was still a lightness to his step that he couldn't seem to contain, although Crowley could tell he was trying. In some ways, it made Crowley so glad to see how happy and carefree his angel was. In others, it made his heart ache to realize what a burden of pain Aziraphale had been existing under...for Satan-only-knows how long.

Well. Strike that. There were definitely three demons who knew. And now that Aziraphale was making significant progress, Crowley needed to remember to get back to them. And make them PAY.

But not right now. Right now, he needed an Extraordinary Amount of Alcohol. That was what he needed.

Crowley went over to the cabinet where the alcohol was—he never refilled it, but it was always full because he expected it to be so—and grabbed whatever his hand came into contact with. The fact that it had the highest percentage of alcohol of anything he had in here was strictly coincidence. 

He wasn't even sure why he suddenly felt the need for a very stiff drink: he'd been so completely relaxed not-he glanced at the clock-okay, well that was actually quite a number of hours that he'd spent working over Aziraphale's wings, so maybe that made sense.

He grabbed a glass and poured the dark amber liquid in, only realizing that Aziraphale was watching him attentively when he raised the glass to his lips and caught the angel staring.

“Yes, angel?”

“Oh, sorry Master,” Aziraphale dropped his gaze demurely, his wings folding in closer around his shoulders. Crowley hadn't gotten to see Aziraphale's wings out—not since Eden really—and he'd forgotten how much the angel conveyed his emotions in his wing movements.

“It's all right angel,” Crowley smiled, just a tidge wryly, since Aziraphale wasn't looking, “What is it?”

“I was wondering if...if I might try some.” Aziraphale's eyes darted to the bottle that Crowley had set on the counter top.

Crowley was about to say 'no'--after all that felt far too much like drugging the angel—but then reconsidered. After all, it wasn't like Aziraphale hadn't been a pretty heavy drinker back on Earth, and what's more he'd asked.

“Just a bit then, angel,” Crowley said, grabbing another glass out of the cabinet, “It's pretty strong stuff.”

…

Aziraphale was not supposed to get drunk off of one drink. In fact, given how much alcohol the angel'd had throughout his time on Earth, Crowley might even go so far as to say that Aziraphale had no business getting drunk off of one drink.

But apparently that's what had happened.

Crowley, himself, was also drunk, but off of quite a larger number of shots (he hadn't originally meant to have that many and mostly just forgot to stop), which made his thinking fuzzy, but he wondered if that miracle-reducing collar (which was much more visible now since, of course, neither of them had managed to put a shirt back on with their wings still out) had some kind of effect on the angel's tolerance for alcohol.

Not that he was really thinking that clearly. Mostly he was just letting whatever words came into his head flow right out his mouth as he walked around the kitchen, brandishing the mostly empty bottle of liquor as he did so.

“An' I think I said something about dolphins and gorillas and what they're puttin' in bananas—I could go for some bananas you can't get any decent fruit in Hell it all goes bad as soon as it passes the gates I mean—but yeah bananas and you said something about the Kraken.”

“The Kraken?” Aziraphale had basically collapsed into a jell-o like state on the table, his wings (still not as bright as they should be) draped around his shoulders like a fluffy white cape.

“Yeah, th' sea beast—y'know, it's s'posed to come up, to the top of the ocean, when th' sea boils 'n' all the fish turn into bou--” he'd learned from the past not to even try that word drunk, “Into fish stew. Anyways, the point was that the Apocalypse came an' the Kraken came up an' ate a bunch of ships I think—an' you weren't there.”

That statement dropped him straight off his fuzzy high and into the darkness of long-brooding depression, and he threw himself back into his seat at the table, staring at Aziraphale, “The Apocalypse happened, and all I could think about was that I lost my best friend...”

Aziraphale's expression promptly turned from one of barely suppressed giggling to something that looked on the edge of tears, “You lost your best friend?”

Crowley nodded morosely, “He was s'posed to stay with me. Run away to Alpha Centauri. We were s'posed to be on OUR side—Our side 'gainst everybody else, s'no matter what. But then...” Crowley sniffed, and pretended like he was just rubbing his nose, “Then his shop burned down an' he was gone...and I never saw him again.”

He dropped his head onto the table, staring at Aziraphale, “I thought maybe I'd found him again, just recently, but I dunno if I really did.”

Aziraphale blinked slowly, “I'm so sorry...that's just terrible.” Crowley was jealous that Aziraphale, even drunk, still managed to keep his diction more or less intact. Crowley had too much snake in him to avoid hissing when he was wasted.

“Yeah.” Crowley tried to nod and found that the table was in the way.

“I don't remember ever having a best friend—or a friend at all.” Aziraphale said, sitting up and staring off into space like he was suddenly very far away, “I don't remember anything about what happened before...”

Crowley sat bolt upright, and all the alcohol left his system in a rush that gave him a headache—but whatever Aziraphale was going to say here was going to be incredibly relevant, he could FEEL it. But he had to be subtle...

“ 'Fore what?” He kept his tone lilting and slurring, so as not to give away how very, very sober he suddenly was.

Aziraphale shook his head slowly, “The other angels—they told me I was a traitor.” He looked back at Crowley conspiratorially, “Because I didn't fight in the war, they said. But I don't remember that—I don't even know why you'd want to fight a war...wars don't help anybody.”

Crowley nodded, “Except bureaucrats and politicians and fuck them.”

Aziraphale inclined his head, “I don't know why angels would fight in a war in the first place—angels are supposed to be good!”

Crowley smiled and murmured softly, “You always thought so.”

Aziraphale waved a hand, his wings fluffing up as he did so, and continued like he hadn't heard Crowley, “But they always said I was supposed to fight in the war. 'You didn't fight so we lost—you were supposed to have that flaming sword and you showed up without a body and without a sword and weren't any use to anybody.'” The angel drooped a bit, and Crowley wanted to go chuck every angel who had said such nasty things to Aziraphale into the lowest levels of hell.

But Aziraphale's face had remained somber and he continued, “They always tried to hurt me, whenever I was there. But...but it was so much better there, in the cage, when all they could use were words, then when I left...and they could use so much more,” his words slowed down and his eyes got wider, seeing something that wasn't in Crowley's kitchen at all, but somewhere else far darker and more painful.

“Aziraphale--” Crowley whispered, but the angel didn't stop.

“I tried so hard to be good—I always tried so hard because angel's are supposed to be GOOD—but I could never, never, do what they wanted, and they always let me know.” He shuddered, “Sometimes they'd pretend and that was worse because I could almost think that maybe it would finally be okay and I'd get to escape from all of this never ending torment...” He hadn't blinked once while he was talking, and tears were slowly staring to trickle down his cheeks.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley grabbed the angel's hand, and Aziraphale snapped his head down to look at Crowley, although it was obvious he was still looking through the demon to the ghosts of his past.

“Aziraphale--” Crowley squeezed the angel's hand tightly and willed him sober as much as he dared, “Aziraphale. Come back to me, please.” 

Please. Please. Please. Please let his angel come back to him—not just out of his reverie here, but all the way, so he remembered Earth, and Crowley...

Slowly, Aziraphale returned to reality, and he sniffled slightly, using his free hand to wipe at tears that were coursing down his cheeks. Crowley reached for his handkerchief until he remembered it was in the pocket of his vest, still hanging in the library, “Are you all right, angel?”

“I'm...I'm sorry Master—that wasn't—I'm not supposed--” Aziraphale stumbled over his words, his free hand fluttering around like it was trying to catch the right words.

“It's all right angel.” Crowley rubbed his thumb across the back of Aziraphale's hand, “You're all right now. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested I wrote another (very short) Good Omens story featuring the 4 Horsepersons over here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23506588


	14. Realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They retire to the library and Aziraphale makes some discoveries

They stayed like that, sitting at the kitchen table, for quite some time; Crowley just watching Aziraphale breathe and not saying much, at least not with words. Instead, he communicated through the gentle touches he applied to Aziraphale's still-shaking hands. A soft stroke of his thumb across his wrist, tracing the angel's (infinite) life line, giving a soft squeeze occasionally. All bringing Aziraphale back to this moment.

“All right, there angel?”

Aziraphale managed a nod, eventually, and Crowley rose, fluidly, and pulled Aziraphale with him, “Shall we retire back to the library, then?”

Aziraphale's glance asked several questions, which Crowley answered rather more flippantly than he felt.

“I don't know if I have the energy to finish getting your wings all sorted today, but I'd love it if you'd read some to me—would that be all right?”

“Y-yes, Master.” Aziraphale followed obediently, his wings still fluffing round his shoulders and not sweeping behind him—enough to tell Crowley that his angel was still very much not all right, despite what he might try to pretend.

In the library, Crowley, almost without thinking, put his wings away as he dug his undershirt out from the pile of clothing on the sofa and pulled it over his head—and certainly didn't notice the almost disappointed look that swept across Aziraphale's face when he wasn't looking. He didn't bother putting on his vest yet, but glanced back at the angel with an eyebrow raised, as he gave a nod at the pieces of suit carefully folded on the sofa arm.

“Um...if it's...if it's all right, Master,” Aziraphale, sans suit cuffs to fuss with, instantly reached for his wing feathers, “I'd like...I'd like to keep my wings out for a bit. Ifthat'sokay.”

Crowley was almost taken aback and it took him a beat to realize why—this was Aziraphale asserting himself in opposition to a question that Crowley had asked. This was Aziraphale actually having his own opinion, and Crowley would be damned all over again if he would squash that. Especially about something like Aziraphale keeping his wings out. Especially especially after what had just happened over drinks.

“'Course, angel,” he slid his arms into his vest, and scooted the pile of Aziraphale's clothing to one side before settling himself on the sofa and gesturing at the cushion next to him, “Would you read to me?”

While Crowley was settling himself in, Aziraphale picked out his current favorite story—The Importance of being Earnest by Oscar Wilde. The angel felt like, somehow, there was a connection between himself and that particular author, although he couldn't imagine what. He sat down on the end of the sofa, and flipped open to the first page. In a voice that trembled slightly at first, but grew more comfortable and more confident with every word, he began to read: 

“We set the scene in a morning room in Algernon's flat in Half-Moon Street. The room is luxuriously and artistically furnished. The sound of a piano is heard in the adjoining room. 

“Lane, the butler you know, is arranging afternoon tea on the table, and after the music has ceased, Algernon enters...”

Crowley couldn't help notice some parallels between the play Aziraphale was reading and their own adventures on Earth. Not entirely, mind you, but there were certainly some character traits that felt quite familiar. Which, he supposed, made sense given the rumors about the author and the angel...

As Aziraphale read, Crowley rather sinuously slithered across the sofa, so that by the end of the first scene his head was resting on Aziraphale's warm shoulder—his eyes theoretically trying to follow the text the angel was reading, but realistically the golden spheres kept disappearing under heavy eyelids, “You don't mind, d'you, angel?” He mumbled.

In many other situations, Aziraphale might have minded. With almost anybody else he could think of, he would have minded, although he would be damned (possibly literally) before admitting it. But somehow, Crowley's head fit just perfectly against his shoulder, and the demon bonelessly draped against his side felt more comforting than threatening. Grounding him, after he'd been so far away earlier (don't think about that, concentrate on this moment).

“N-not at all, my dear.” he stumbled a bit, and quickly returned to the play.

Crowley curled more snugly against the angel's side as Aziraphale continued to read, spinning the intricate tale of misunderstandings and, for lack of a better word, shenanigans that all somehow worked out in everybody's favor—not that Crowley stayed awake that long. By only a few acts in, he was breathing deeply, with the occasional soft hiss thrown in. 

Aziraphale had to mask what was almost a fond smile, and instinctively stretched one wing to curl around the demon's shoulders, wrapping Crowley in a blanket of fluffy white feathers.

But that action, watching Crowley's breath ruffle a few loose pieces of down, gave Aziraphale pause.

What in Heaven's name was he doing? 

He was getting Attached, he was feeling Compassion—emotions he'd done his best to smother out of his angelic nature as far back as he could remember, because the only thing those kind of thoughts did was get him hurt. Over and over and over and over and over—for eternity. 

That's what they'd promised: those three. The first thing he could remember. The promise of eternal torment, never ending, never pausing even for a moment. That was to be his lot in life. Because that's what he deserved. And that's what he had believed, unquestioningly, up until now.

It was dangerous, feeling anything more than pure subservience. Even for Crowley, who, so far, had done literally, absolutely nothing to harm him and had, in fact, ensured that Aziraphale felt better than he could remember feeling in his entire existence. He was fed, clothed, allowed to stay all the time he liked in a beautiful library—but, Aziraphale chewed his lip nervously—that only meant that there was more to be taken away if...no, much more likely WHEN, his Master got sick of him, grew tired of him the same way all the others had done. Or if he messed up—a step too far out of line. He was already dancing along the edge, when he forgot himself, when he felt too comfortable and relaxed.

But this world view he'd accepted in his head was at war with his heart, which rebelliously told him that Crowley could be trusted, that Crowley was his...his FRIEND...or maybe even something more than that...

Aziraphale shook his head, carefully so as not to jostle the demon snoozing on his shoulder, and sighed, letting the pages of his book flip back.

They stopped on the dedications page, which Aziraphale hadn't really bothered to closely examine before, but which had some extra writing on it that now drew his eye.

In small, crisp, handwritten letters, was the note: To Aziraphale: My dear friend, I hope this play brings you as much joy and laughter as our friendship has brought me these many years.

For quite a number of moments, Aziraphale just stared at the writing. It didn't make any sense, those words being there. This was a book that he'd found, stuffed in amongst all the others in the library here—it hadn't been left out for him, hadn't even been particularly noticeable in this rather worn tome—why would his Master have put his name in it? Of course, it was certainly possible that when Crowley had seen what he was going to read, he'd miracled the message in, but why?

The only possible explanation in that direction involved Crowley being far more clever than Aziraphale had pegged him for, leading him on in every conceivable way, which, given that the demon was more or less currently completely at his mercy, strictly speaking, was very, very odd.

Not that the angel would have done anything nasty to him. That went against the very nature of being angelic. But the possibility was still THERE. Asleep next to him.

Aziraphale huffed, closing the book, and furrowing his brow as he stared into space, trying to sort out this increasingly confusing conundrum—and found himself staring at the carved doors of the library. 

He'd spent a lot of time in this room, many hours and days in fact, but almost all of that time he'd been consumed by the task of working with the books, and he hadn't actually considered the door very much. Which is why he hadn't realized something.

The figures on the doors. They were Crowley...and him. In different times, different eras apparently given the outfits (and hairstyles, oh my) that the various figures were wearing—but especially after seeing Crowley with his wings now, Aziraphale could discern the image of his Master. And the figure next to him, appearing over and over in the mural—it was him. There was just no mistaking it.

Aziraphale's soft gasp turned into a choke as the sound of a knock at the front door resonated through the mansion.


	15. Darkness at the Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who wondered who was at the door: let's just say it was Nobody Good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably the single darkest chapter in this story (and the longest so far)...we needed one more section of angst before everything can finally get better.

Aziraphale shot off the couch, going from a rather comfortable reclined state to bolt upright in approximately no seconds whatsoever. His very rapid movement caused Crowley to not only fall off his shoulder, but overbalance as he started to wake up and land flat on his face on the floor with a muffled “URF.”

Although to be fair he really shouldn't have fallen asleep on the angel's shoulder, since he had been known occasionally to sleep for centuries and that probably would have been a bit inconvenient to the angel...

Crowley yawned, still not entirely awake so the hiss was evident in his voice, “Azzzziraphale, what'sss wrong...?”

But the angel didn't have to answer, as the knock came again, more insistently this time and carrying with it some kind of horrible weight that dropped like an anvil into Crowley's chest and kicked all remaining dregs of sleep out of his system.

He was suddenly standing upright as well, although the motion that got him there was significantly more fluid than anything with human-shaped bones ought to be able to achieve. He straightened his vest, adjusted the skinny tie that was suddenly around his neck because expected it to be there, and pulled a pair of dark black sunglasses out of a pocket to slide them on.

Then he realized that Aziraphale hadn't actually breathed since he stood up—hadn't even moved at all, in fact.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley put a hand on Aziraphale's arm and the angel jumped, staring at him with a hunted look in his eyes, “It'll be all right. Come on.”

He didn't really want to bring Aziraphale to the door, but whoever it was would probably expect that his 'slave' be at his beck and call—besides, he'd rather Aziraphale be where he could keep an eye on him in the presence of any other demons who might be calling.

The knocks were coming incessantly now, although that didn't really point to any particular caller: very few demons in Hell were known for their short-term patience after all.

“Yes, all right, all right,” Crowley growled under his breath as he reached for the brass handle of his front door, casting one last reassuring glance over his shoulder to Aziraphale—when he realized that the angel was clutching The Importance of Being Earnest to his chest like a security blanket and still had his very obviously healed wings out, .

“Ohshityourwings,” Crowley practically dived at Aziraphale who stumbled backwards in surprise as Crowley used a slightly more forceful miracle than he'd have liked to hide the angel's wings, before turning swiftly and slamming open the door, which had just started to look like it wasn't going to survive on its current hinges for much longer, given the force of knocking on it.

As soon as Crowley opened the door, he really wished he hadn't. But he pasted the most pleasant expression he could on his face (it looked rather like he'd just been eating a large quantity of lemons) and greeted the visitor.

“Duke Hastur! What an...unexpected surprise.”

Behind him, Crowley could practically feel Aziraphale crumbling into himself, and the demon made sure to plant himself firmly between Hastur and his angel.

Once upon a time, Hastur had severely outranked Crowley in both power and prestige. After successfully facilitating the Apocalypse, Crowley had obtained the title of Lord, but that was more of a formality than an actual promotion. Hastur's powers were still considerably greater than Crowley's were, especially here in Hell. Which prompted Crowley to tread carefully.

“What can I do for you?”

The tall demon lurked in the door—he wasn't quite as good a lurker as Ligur was, when he put his mind to it, but he could still easily out-lurk any human Crowley had ever met. Hastur's air of menace was only slightly dampened by the stupid frog he insisted on wearing on his head when he stayed in Hell for extended periods of time. Crowley had never understood the appeal, but then, he wasn't exactly your typical demon.

Although wearing a snake on your head would actually look cool...

But Hastur taking a step forward completely snapped Crowley out of his ponderings of the Duke's choice of headwear. He didn't retreat, staying solidly between Hastur and Aziraphale, and did his best to keep a neutral expression on his face. He'd never liked being this close to the other demon—the smell was unbelievable. 

“I just thought,” Haster's dead black eyes seemed to stare right through Crowley, “That I'd check in on you. And your new...acquisition.”

He sidestepped around Crowley, staring at Aziraphale with a slight tilt of his head. Crowley tried unsuccessfully to maneuver back to put himself between the demon and his angel, “You did? Well that's...thoughtful of you—did Lord Beelzebub ask you to? Because I'm doing quite all right and there's really no need to go to all the trouble of...”

“No trouble at all.” Hastur flicked a glance in Crowley's direction, “We like to...keep an eye out. Make sure everyone is settling in properly.” His soulless eyes swept over Aziraphale, and Crowley tried very hard not to imagine all that Hastur was seeing—manicured hands, clear skin, pressed suit pants (thank SOMEONE that Aziraphale wasn't wearing the top of his suit or there was no way Hastur wouldn't be suspicious)...

“I'm actually a bit...surprised.” Hastur said after a moment, in which Crowley realized he'd been forgetting to breath and tried to respond with a forced casual tone.

“Oh? Why?”

“I'd have expected you to return it by now.”

Crowley took a beat to realize that the 'it' Hastur was referring to was Aziraphale, and had to clench his teeth not to deck the Duke right in his slightly smug little smile.

“Most demons have found it...unsatisfactory.”

Crowley's tone was clipped as he replied, “I haven't had any problems.”

“No? Hmmm...I suppose not. After all, you spent so long up there among the humans, spent so long thinking up the most vile and horrible punishments,” there was a glitter in Hastur's black eyes that made the bottom of Crowley's stomach drop out, “I read your reports on the Spanish Inquisition; I do believe Lord Beelzebub gave you a commendation for that one.”

Hastur was baiting him—there was a trap here, Crowley could taste it, but he couldn't figure out how to avoid it.

“Yes. But I don't think you came here to discuss my accomplishments,” his brusqueness was bordering on insubordinate, but Crowley really, really wanted Hastur gone—especially because, every time he glanced at Aziraphale from behind his dark sunglasses, the angel looked more and more wilted, folding in on himself. Crowley could practically see the angel rebuilding barriers that he'd worked so hard to bring down.

“No.” Hastur agreed (a most disconcerting effect), “I suppose...I came to get some...advice.” 

“From me?” Crowley couldn't help his eyebrows shooting straight up his forehead.

“Of course,” when Crowley didn't protest further, Hastur grinned and went on, “You seem to have found quite the method for dealing with this difficult case,” he gestured vaguely with one mackintosh-covered hand at Aziraphale, “I'd like to know how you did it.”

“Ngk,” Crowley said, and then, thinking far faster than he'd had to in quite some time, “Well, you know, when you spend a lot of time on Earth thinking of ways to torment the humans, it's not that hard to find ways to get to angels as well.”

“Really? Do go on.”

Crowley swallowed, a reflex from years on Earth masquerading as a human since neither snakes nor demons actually had to worry about that, “Um...er...”

Hastur descended on him like a vulture, smelling carrion, “Do you use thumbscrews? Boiling oil? The rack? Oh, come Crowley, do give me the gory details.”

“Um.” Said Crowley, unhelpfully.

“Because it seems to me,” Hastur was close enough now, looming over him, that Crowley could smell his breath—the stench alone was almost enough to send him reeling back, “That you aren't following the regulations about how slaves should be treated.” His grin was far too sharp, “It seems to me, Crowley, that you are a rubbish demon who deserves neither the title nor privileges granted to you, and that when I report back to Lord Beelzebub, they will come and take your little pet away and send you back into the pit where you belong.”

Crowley slowly pulled out his handkerchief and patted away the places where Hastur's words had spit on his cheek.

He was stalling.

“I wasn't aware,” his voice was far steadier than he had thought it would be, “That how demons treat their property was any concern of the Dark Council's.”

“Oh, but with you Crowley,” Haster was practically beaming with his own perverse glee, “I'll make sure that it's their concern. After all—you spent so long up there on Earth, that who knows? You could have been Corrupted towards the Light,” he practically spat the last words, “I always knew that you were rubbish demon and this--” he flung an arm at Aziraphale, who was doing his best to melt straight into the wall, “Proves it.”

Hastur stepped back from Crowley with an unbearably smug expression on his face, “I'll be making my report shortly—and your little pet will be taken away and given to a proper demon.”

Crowley could just barely hear the little gasp of horror that Aziraphale made at that, but Hastur had equally good demonic hearing, and whirled around so fast that Crowley barely had time to register it, striking Aziraphale across the face so hard that the angel was sent flying backwards, collapsing onto his rear as tears pinpricked his eyes. His book skittered onto the floor behind him.

“How DARE you?!” Crowley roared, and Hastur turned, eagerly ready for Crowley's rage.

But it was to Aziraphale that Crowley had addressed his question, and it was to Aziraphale that he strode angrily, the angel staring up at him with bewildered gray eyes. Crowley reached down, hooked his fingers around the metal collar and hauled the angel up, Aziraphale gasping as he scrambled to get his legs under him, “How DARE you make a noise in the presence of a Duke of Hell? I explicitly told you to be seen and not heard—you know the rules!”

Crowley whirled around, hand still holding onto Aziraphale's collar so that the angel was forced to stumble along with him, “Apologize at once!”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but Crowley cut him off, practically hissing, “Properly, ssslave.”

“Y-yes, Master,” the angel whispered as Crowley let go of his collar. Aziraphale slowly dropped to his knees in front of Hastur, bowing his head, “I—I apologize for my unacceptable behavior, Duke Hastur.”

“And?” Crowley dug his foot into Aziraphale's back.

“And I promise to do better, Master.”

Hastur squinted, and Crowley could tell that he was trying to figure out if this was some kind of ruse, “What?”

Crowley felt like he was going to throw up, but forced the words out anyways, “One thing I learned from all my experience on Earth, Duke Hastur—you can only truly hurt someone if you give them reason to first believe that you won't. That's where true torture lies. Oh yes, sure, you can inflict as much physical pain on someone as you like but destroying them emotionally—that's when you really get the kind of obedience you want.” He stood behind Aziraphale trailing his hand through the angel's curls in a way that was not remotely affectionate and was entirely possessive, like one would pet a very expensive dog.

“Well,” Hastur squinted for a moment, before his face cleared. 

Crowley felt a surge of relief that was instantly squashed as Hastur strode across the room (tracking Satan only knows what across the plush carpet) and picked up the book from where Aziraphale had dropped it.

He turned and handed it to Crowley, “Burn it.”

“What?” Crowley was so surprised that his facade dropped for a moment, and had he not been wearing the dark glasses, Hastur would easily have seen his completely astonished golden eyes.

“Obviously, since your slave cares so much about it to be carrying it around with him even when he is meant to be wholly serving you, it must be valuable to him.” Hastur's black eyes bored into the reflections of Crowley's glasses, “Didn't you just say that was how you did it?”

Crowley could feel Aziraphale, so tense that he might snap. But he also knew he was stuck. There was no way out. If he refused, Hastur would report him to the Dark Council and someone would come and take Aziraphale away and he would never see him again.

But if he did it—he had heard, from the angel's voice when he was reading earlier, how much he loved this book and Crowley knew, Crowley KNEW from reading that fucking file that the thing Aziraphale was most afraid of in the whole world was that all of this was a lie, all of it a ruse: Crowley was simply giving him things in order to better take them away later.

If he complied, he could loose Aziraphale's trust. But if he didn't...he could loose the angel, totally and completely, forever.

There was no choice.

Hellfire sprang from Crowley's fingertips and enveloped the book—paper crackled into ash and the spine rippled as it folded into itself.

Hastur's expression changed from something almost bordering on happiness to a sullen pout.

And that might have been the end of it, except that Aziraphale had caught sight of the title page, the one with the dedication addressed to him, and made the softest squeak, his hands unconsciously raising.

Crowley backhanded him. That would have been bad enough, but he did it with the hand that still held the remnants of the burning book: instead of just being a blow, the Hellfire left an angry red splash across the angel's face. Sparks flew into Aziraphale's hair and the angel squeaked, frantically tried to pat them out, while Hastur started laughing as he looked on.

“Maybe I underestimated you, Crowley.”

Crowley had his fist clenched so tightly that he could feel his nails carving crescents into his palm, and it was literally taking every ounce of willpower not to rush to Aziraphale's side, “Are you satisfied?”

“For now,” Hastur nodded.

“Then get out.”

Hastur's grin faded somewhat, and he gave Crowley a quick parting glare, cast another glance at Aziraphale, who was staring up from the heap on the floor where he'd collapsed, hair still smoldering in some places, before turning on his heel and striding out the door—which closed behind him of its own accord with an extremely loud and final-sounding BANG.


	16. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is angst but it can only get better from here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I read through the entirety of Good Omens (or, well, specifically all parts with Aziraphale and Crowley) in the last three days in order to get inspiration for how to write them in these last two chapters...

The instant the door closed behind Hastur, it locked soundly, and Crowley was tossing the book on the floor and diving to Aziraphale.

“Ohshitohshitohshitohshit Aziraphale I'm so sorry I didn't mean to do that are you okay?” Stupid, stupid question; there was no way, literally, in HELL that Aziraphale was even remotely 'okay.' And that was confirmed as Aziraphale slowly lifted his head, and there was...

Nothing.

In his eyes. Back to blank, mirrored pools.

Except now it was even worse, because as Crowley desperately sought for something of his angel in those eyes, he knew, he KNEW that, this time, it was his fault.

And so was the red splash across Aziraphale's face, which he fixed as best he could—Hellfire burns would take time to heal even with miracles. Which was just fine. Crowley deserved to see, pasted on Aziraphale's face, what he'd done to the angel.

“I'msosorryI'msosorry,” the demon closed his eyes behind his glasses, fighting back tears, and pressed his forehead to Aziraphale's, like he could communicate what he was feeling, the reasons for what he had done, telepathically to the angel.

But Aziraphale sat like a statue, without moving, without reacting at all, and Crowley couldn't keep it together anymore. Not after loosing Aziraphale all over again.

He scooted away from the angel until his back hit a wall, and then pulled his ridiculously long skinny legs in and pressed his face into his bony knees, unable to hold back the deep, wracking sobs. He didn't even care that the metal frame of his sunglasses was digging painfully into his skin—he deserved that. 

Fuck, he deserved, he DESERVED to burn for what he'd just done—whatever his reasons, even though he'd been trying to save Aziraphale from being taken away, he'd burnt the angel with HELLFIRE: he couldn't even IMAGINE the agony that had caused...

It was unforgivable.

Hah. Hah.

The universe always had to have the last laugh.

Crowley gulped down another sob and scrubbed his hand across his face. His hand came away red with the bloody tears that were yet another one of the curses of being a demon.

“Fuck.” He said, feeling that word pretty much summed up the last hour or so of his life, and then turned to Aziraphale, who hadn't moved a single inch since Hastur had left.

Forcing words through chattering teeth, Crowley managed, “Let's get you to your room, angel.”

“Yes, Master,” Aziraphale's response was hollow, and his eyes didn't track Crowley as the demon dragged himself up limply, and did his best to help the angel up too. Aziraphale had put on weight since he'd been with Crowley, and the demon almost fell over trying to keep him balanced.

They staggered back to Aziraphale's room, where Crowley, through a blur of new tears that were just barely concealed by his glasses, tucked the angel into bed—it was like tucking in a corpse: he didn't move, didn't react, didn't even close his eyes but just kept staring up at the ceiling like a dead thing.

“I'm so sorry.” Not that it helped. Not that he deserved to be forgiven. Not that Aziraphale would ever, EVER open up to him again.

Crowley had to run out of the room before he broke down again, wandering drunkenly back through the hallways towards...he didn't know where. He didn't even know what direction he'd turned when leaving Aziraphale's room until he tripped over something on the floor and fell ungracefully onto his face.

When he looked to see what it was that was on his usually spotless floor, he found that it was Aziraphale's book. The one he'd burned.

Or, more accurately, had made it look very convincingly like he'd burned.

He'd known that if he didn't destroy it then Hastur would have figured something was up. The Duke was dense but he wasn't a complete idiot, and Crowley refusing to destroy something that was clearly Aziraphale's would have been the final nail in the coffin of Hastur's suspicions. Crowley would have given it an hour or two tops before the Dark Council's goons—demons who were, if possible, even less pleasant than Hastur—had come knocking at his door. And then neither he nor Aziraphale would still be here. Crowley demoted down to nothingness, and Aziraphale...Aziraphale thrown back into the cage, his wings broken all over again...Crowley shuddered, the horror rippling through him at the very thought.

But on the other hand Crowley knew how much the book meant to Aziraphale. And he'd remembered an old hobby of the angel's—when he'd found books that had needed help, old ones that had been through the wringer and were missing bits of covers or bindings, the angel had mended them, just as he tried to angelically mend everything he ever came across in his life...Crowley included.

And so Crowley, through sheer force of will, had convinced the book that only the cover was flammable and that the rest of it was Not Going to Burn no matter that it was being exposed to pure Demonic Hellfire.

The effort of doing so was part of the reason that he'd actually hit Aziraphale: the feedback loop played havoc with his ability to temper his demonic tendencies. The red glow was still just leaving his eyes—he was out of practice with this.

It would have astonished him, at that moment, to know that in another time and another universe, he'd used the same power to convince an entire 1,200 kg piece of molten metal that it was a fully functional automobile.

Crowley assessed the book. The cover was gone—the spine broken and the frontispiece singed. The whole affair was covered in soot and ash, which, as Crowley picked it up, stained his hands black—rather appropriately, he thought numbly.

But the pages were all still there. A little singed, some additional browning around the edges, and with a few corners missing here and there, but all complete.

And now, with the cover gone, he, too, could read the inscription on the front page: To Aziraphale: My dear friend, I hope this play brings you as much joy and laughter as our friendship has brought me these many years.

Crowley stared at these words for a very long time, and, finally, hugged the book to his chest, looking up towards the ceiling and whatever invisible power had once been present up there.

“Why?”

Nobody answered.

…

The next week, in no uncertain terms, was terrible.

Aziraphale still went through approximately the same motions as he had before. He would dress, if Crowley asked him to, and go to the library and sort the books. But he didn't read them, and he didn't speak unless Crowley addressed him specifically. Even then, it was always “Yes, Master” “No, Master” or, if it wasn't a yes or no option, “I don't know, Master.”

That was it.

Crowley himself spent his time circling the drain of being drunk, miserable with guilt, and feeling sick to his stomach. That last one was unusual for him, until he realized, rather blearily and belatedly, that it was almost certainly some kind of retribution for going against the swearing on his name. He wasn't worse off only because it was all a matter of intention, and no matter what had actually happened, his intention had always, ALWAYS been to keep Aziraphale safe.

Not that knowing that helped him feel any better.

He spent most of his time either sitting in his throne with his head on his desk amongst the rows of empty bottles, or, sometimes, even just lying on the floor, when he didn't even have the energy to get up and feel miserable that way.

All he wanted to do was go to sleep for the next century and forget that any of this had happened—he'd wake up back in his flat in Mayfair and go visit his angel and Aziraphale would say “Dear boy, where have you been? You missed the most interesting things...” 

The only reason he didn't is that he was pretty sure the angel would stop eating if he wasn't explicitly told to, and despite his myriad of other failings, Crowley was at least going to keep his angel physically healthy: fed and clothed and washed and rested. The burn on his face was mostly gone now, only the slightest dark mark showed where it had been.

But that was pretty much the only interactions he had with the angel. He'd give him short instructions over food, and then disappear into his office.

He never went into the angel's library.

Not until he had to.

...

Crowley spent far too long standing outside the doors, leaning his forehead against the cool wood and periodically taking swigs of liquid courage from whatever bottle of alcohol he currently had—he had tried to read the label but his vision was swimming too badly to figure out the curlicue writing.

Finally, though, he took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

Aziraphale didn't answer, but then he hadn't really expected him to. Crowley creaked open the door and poked his nose in.

The angel was methodically shelving some books he'd sorted by the Dewey Decimal system, despite having no access to any computer or other cataloging system: of course he'd have that memorized. He might even have come up with it—felt like something the angel would do.

For several moments, Crowley just stood awkwardly, before finally slurring, “S'lookss nice.” Aziraphale didn't indicate that he'd heard him, and Crowley's heart fell more, although he hadn't thought that was even possible.

“I...” he tried his best to enunciate his words without hissing and failed rather spectacularly, “Gotchu sssssomething. A presssent.”

“Yes, Master.” Aziraphale said, without turning to face him, still putting books on the shelf with rhythmic precision.

Crowley wilted, and finally just gestured with his bottle at the end table, “I'll jus....I'll jus' leave it here then, sssspose.”

“Yes, Master.”

Crowley carefully deposited the small package on the table and turned to leave. At the doors, he cast one, last, baleful glance over his shoulder at the angel...and then was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

As the door closed, Aziraphale stopped. For quite a while, he didn't move at all, before finally, slowly setting down his work and turning to see what it was that his Master had left.

The package on the table was, to be polite, very poorly wrapped in parcel paper, with string tied in far too many looping knots by someone who was trying to be fancy and not doing a very good job of it at all. 

That didn't phase Aziraphale, who used deft, dexterous fingers to pry apart the knots and unwrap the paper.

Inside was...

A book.

The cover was obviously not original, and a discerning eye could tell that it had been put on by someone who thought he knew what an antique book cover should look like, but hadn't spent nearly enough time carefully observing such things to actually know. The sewing on it was obviously done by hand, and by a not-very-steady hand at that...but not a miracle.

Aziraphale tentatively opened the slightly ill-fitting cover and just stared at the words that faced him on the page: To Aziraphale: My dear friend, I hope this play brings you as much joy and laughter as our friendship has brought me these many years.

And then below that, in shaking, blood-red writing, I'm so sorry, angel. -C

Aziraphale slowly let the cover close again, and stared pensively at the books surrounding him.

…

Crowley had passed out at his desk, like he was wont to do these days. He'd set an alarm, so that he'd wake up and go make dinner for Aziraphale, but that wasn't what woke him tonight.

No, what woke him tonight was the soft click of the door to his office closing, and the delicious smells wafting off of the covered plate that sat about 6 inches in front of his nose. 

Slowly, head spinning nauseatingly, Crowley sat up, knocking at least one bottle of his desk in the process, and reached tentatively out to pull the cover off the plate, revealing some plain scrambled eggs, toast, and, of all the impossible things, a banana.

Crowley couldn't help the tears that pooled in his eyes as he looked towards the door and whispered, “Aziraphale.”


	17. The Ask and the Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get Slightly Better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got distracted reading everybody else's really good Good Omens fanfiction and forgot to write my own...

It took Crowley far too long to finally get up and slouch into the kitchen, keeping to the shadows instinctively, his grip on the now-empty plate tight enough to turn his knuckles white. His walking was still unsteady, since he hadn't been able to convince himself to sober up miraculously.

Aziraphale was in the kitchen, back turned to the hallway—apparently washing up dishes which Crowley had Not Been Bothering with. 

The demon opened his mouth.

And the closed it again.

Several times. It was probably good that Aziraphale didn't realize that he was standing there, looking like a drowning goldfish as he tried to pull enough tenuous threads together in his mind to make a coherent statement.

Unfortunately, what he came up with was, “Where'd you find the banana?”

To his immense credit, Aziraphale barely jumped when he heard Crowley's voice behind him, and turned to face him with a slightly puzzled expression, “It was just...here, Master.” He gestured at the counter.

There was no way that a banana had been “just here”--Crowley would have remembered miracling that up—probably. That being said, maybe he'd done it while he was totally wasted...that was probably it. And so he dismissed that particular train of thought and focused on the fact that not only had Aziraphale actually acknowledged his presence and answered his question (however stupid said question was) but he'd made him food.

“Thanksss, angel.” The words weren't much, but the tone and atmosphere that Crowley exuded was so totally pathetic that apparently the angel took mercy on him and gave the demon just the smallest smile.

“Of course, Master.”

For several minutes, they just sort of stood there awkwardly, before Crowley finally cleared his throat and managed, “Well. I'd...I'd best get...back...” He almost said 'to work' but they both knew that was a tremendous lie.

Aziraphale nodded, and murmured, “Yes, Master,” as Crowley turned and meandered back to his office.

…

The next week was Better.

To start with, Crowley only spent about 75% of his time totally wasted instead of 100%—to be fair, significant portions of the time he spent sober, he spent asleep, but he just couldn't deal with waking up to a hangover headache anymore.

He honestly would have liked to be more sober more often, but the problem was that any time he started to come back to his full senses, he remembered that, one way or another, he would have to face Hastur again, this time almost certainly with backup from either Ligur or Michael or BOTH, in order to get Aziraphale's collar off.

And he didn't want to face the continued impossibility of that particular plan.

At least things with Aziraphale got slightly better. The angel would actually answer him again, although he still didn't initiate any conversations, and he would acknowledge Crowley's presence over meals.

Crowley, for his part, had almost unconsciously reimplemented his policy of just talking to Aziraphale constantly whenever they were together. Depending on his mood, it could be anything from a particularly entertaining bit of temptation and the ensuing shenanigans that had caused, to how much he hated the 14th century, to, well, what he was talking about today.

It hadn't been a particularly good day. Crowley had actually started off feeling somewhat decent, and, feeling so empowered, had started to look into figuring out how to release Aziraphale again.

Suffice to say, it had not inspired him with confidence.

And so, by lunchtime, he was sitting at the kitchen table in a heap, head resting on the table as he stared into the depths of a particularly entrancing green bottle and letting his thoughts just go straight from his inebriated brain to his slightly forked tongue.

“Y'know...I never asked to be a demon,” Aziraphale made some kind of noise of acknowledgment as he carried over plates of something that Crowley didn't bother looking at right now, “It was jus'...one day there wasn't anything goin' on and heeeeey look it's Lucifer and guys...” Crowley sniffed, “Nex' thing I know I'm doin' a million light year freestyle dive into a pool of boiling sulfur.”

He turned his head to prop his chin on the table and stare across at Aziraphale, who was watching him with a practiced neutral expression.

“Y'know what it felt like to Fall, angel? It was like...it was like your whole being was covered in hot tar, sticky and burning and you couldn't get it off even as you felt it burn away pieces of yourself. Your wings—you know, I don't even remember what my wings looked like in Heaven—your wings get covered in it, burning away all that white, like great big flaming torches behind you. I thought...” Crowley swallowed as he admitted it, “I thought they were gonna burn right off, nothin' left but smoldering memories...I think Hastur's did burn clean off, maybe that's why he's always been such a bastard,” He barked a harsh laugh, which faded into something between a sob and a hiccough, “But you know what was even worse? What was worse was the way it made you feel in your gut. S'like...s'like loosing everything you ever had, everything you loved, and not even knowing why. 

“All I ever did was ask questions—thas' IT, angel. I asked questions...an' if She didn't want me to ask questions, why'd She make it so I could ask them in the firs' place?”

The old Aziraphale would have said something with the word 'ineffable' in it at that point, but, of course, this Aziraphale stayed silent.

Crowley flopped his head back over to stare into the bottle again, but it wasn't green glass he was seeing, and when he spoke again, it was much more softly and with an almost reverent tone, “I hung the stars, y'know, angel. I took the glittering light and sprinkled it throughout the heavens so that all of Her creatures could look up at the night sky and feel beautiful...feel inspired and like they weren't alone. I painted whole galaxies, angel, in swirls of colors they still don't have names for, never knowing if anyone would even ever see it, but hoping...” Crowley reached out, like he could touch those glimmers of light that he'd arranged so carefully in their picturesque patterns, but the motion broke the dream, and he was back in his kitchen, in Hell, about as far away from the stars as he could get.

Slowly his arm dropped, flopping back onto the table, “I thought that would be forever,” his voice wasn't slurred now, just deeply, achingly melancholy, “I thought I would get to stay out there with the stars forever.” Crowley's voice broke on the last word.

Finally, he looked back at the angel, “And then I got sent to Earth and I met you and suddenly it all wasn't so bad...I thought, I thought 'Hey this's still worth doing.' I could see the stars and I could hear you laugh, and it was almost like being back in Heaven sometimes, 'cept there was better alcohol and more comfortable furniture.”

Crowley hiccoughed, “But that didn't last forever either...and now, now I've finally fucked up the last possibility I could have had,” his tone was matter-of-fact now, and he wasn't even talking to Aziraphale anymore, “The Universe said, 'All right Crowley, here it is, your Last Chance,' with the big flashing neon sign an' everything, and I tried so hard, angel, I tried SO BLESSED HARD to get it right...but here we are.” He indicated said situation with a sweeping gesture that came frighteningly close to toppling the bottle he'd been reminiscing into.

“I really am a terrible demon,” he concluded before finally falling into silence, spent.

The silence last for several moments, where Crowley just kept staring into the depths of the bottle, halfway hoping to find the answers to all the universe's conundrums within, and was so fixated on this particular pursuit that he almost didn't hear Aziraphale speak, and even so still missed the first words the angel said.

“What was that, angel?” Crowley propped up his head again, squinting to try and get Aziraphale to come into focus properly.

“I said,” Aziraphale was looking at him with an unreadable expression, “I forgive you.”

For one of the very few times in his entire existence, Crowley was shocked into complete silence. He just stared at Aziraphale with golden eyes wide, feeling suddenly Extremely Sober.

Finally, he managed to stammer out, “I...you...what?”

Although Aziraphale's mouth didn't soften, his eyes did, just a little bit, just a tiny hint of the man-shaped creature Crowley had fallen in lo—been best friends with, “I forgive you, Crowley.”

Crowley quite literally didn't know how to deal with this, so when the angel rested a hand across the table, not the first time he'd reached out to the demon since Hastur's visit, he seized on it, pulling the angel's hand to his cheek, closing his eyes, and feeling the soft warmth of the angel's soft fingers on his skin.

He didn't say anything.

He didn't need to.

Aziraphale knew, anyways.


	18. Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thoughts of a certain angel

To be perfectly fair, Aziraphale wasn't sure HOW he knew exactly what Crowley was thinking in that moment. And it was quite a mix of emotions.

Aziraphale had been feeling rather torn for the whole week, ever since his Master had given him back the book—the one that he'd appeared to destroy in front of Duke Ha...no, no, Aziraphale wasn't even going to think that name: it made shivers wriggle their way all the way from his toes to the top of his curly head.

No other Master had really bothered ever...giving anything BACK after it went the first time. Plenty had started out by pretending like they cared, going through an elaborate facade and set up, giving the angel things he'd liked, only to then slowly start taking them away in more and more creative and cruel ways.

Nothing had ever been...returned. And certainly not with such obvious attention to craftsmanship.

He had hidden the book far back on a shelf, behind a strangely large collection of nonfiction books on snakes: not that it would really do much good if his Master decided to miracle it away, but he'd found that things out of sight stayed significantly more out of mind...

However, he had found himself wondering if that was actually necessary.

He'd had Masters who spent almost all their time in their cups, to be polite (or totally wasted, to be impolite), but never ones who were...so melancholy about it. Even when Crowley had thought Aziraphale was ignoring him, the angel had been watching out of the corners of his eyes, a skill he'd gotten quite adept at throughout his time as a slave—the better to see what was coming. 

And what he'd seen was the constant slump to Crowley's shoulders, the way his eyes—never with glasses, not when he was just with Aziraphale—stared at the angel like looking at him broke the demon's heart (don't be stupid Aziraphale, demons don't have hearts), the way he folded in on himself when the angel didn't answer, instead of flaring out into an explosion, like Aziraphale was used to.

So Aziraphale had wondered if maybe...

But no. He had to keep his walls up. He'd started to let them down before, and look where that had led. Better just to keep them up, stay safe and secure and alone behind looking glass eyes.

And then Crowley had been talking about Falling.

Aziraphale knew of no demons, not a single one, who had ever talked about Falling before. In fact, as far as he'd known, no demons had even had memories of Falling, much less of what they'd done before, in Heaven.

But Crowley did. He'd talked about hanging the stars—and the way his voice turned almost into a song when he did so, like he was singing his way back to the start of the universe—it was beautiful in a way that Aziraphale hadn't even known demons could comprehend.

And the Longing. Crowley's voice wasn't full of Lust or Greed or Desire—the emotions that Aziraphale was used to hearing when demons wanted something that they didn't have Right That Very Moment—it was full of a deep, aching, desperate Longing, for something that had been and now was gone and never would be again.

Loss. Loss he understood.

And he'd known he had to say something. Because, even after everything he'd been through, despite everything that had happened, he was an angel.

And angels Heal. Angels Understand. And angels Forgive.

He hadn't even really thought about his phrasing, hadn't thought about the retribution saying this might bring—he'd just opened his mouth and whispered the words.

And when Master Crowley didn't hear him the first time, he'd said it again. 

And when Master Crowley didn't seem to understand him the second time, he'd said it again.

For a moment, watching his Master's stunned expression, Aziraphale felt a quiver in his soul, that maybe he HAD misjudged here, that he shouldn't have let his better nature take the lead...but when his hand reached out to Crowley, almost of its own accord, and the demon took it and pressed it to his cheek...somehow Aziraphale knew that it had been The Right Thing.

And it gave him the opportunity to notice that Crowley's cheeks were bony, sunken in more than they'd been even when he'd arrived—the last two weeks had not been kind to his Master. 

That was what he couldn't understand. That right there. No other Master had ever lost health like this when he'd been around them, And the fact that the only reason the angel could fathom for this sudden change was that he, Aziraphale, had closed himself off, had shut the door again—and instead of demanding anything from him, his Master had retreated inside himself, practically made himself ill (if that were a thing that angels or demons could actually do), and now...

Now he had been talking about hanging the stars and Falling, and that made Aziraphale's heart, which he'd tried so hard for so many years to turn to stone, start to feel alive again.

He wasn't sure that Master Crowley was ever going to let go of his hand, until the demon spoke. His Master's words weren't slurred anymore, but they were so quiet that Aziraphale almost couldn't hear them.

“You said that to me before, you know.” The barest hint of a sad smile, “In a different context, with a different tone of voice...I don't know if you meant it then.”

“I mean it now.” Aziraphale had to protest, and Crowley actually smiled, although it didn't reach all the way to his liquid golden eyes.

Aziraphale tried very hard not to fall into said eyes as he was noticing them, and instead pulled himself together and took stock of where they were at.

His Master still didn't look like he was going to be going anywhere by himself very soon, and Aziraphale's arm was falling asleep from being stretched awkwardly across the slightly too-long-for-this table. For any other Master, any other time, he wouldn't have been so bold, but maybe this would be all right...

Before the whispers of self-doubt could cut him off, Aziraphale rose from his spot at the table and came round to Crowley, “Master, won't you come with me?”

Crowley stared, blinking slowly for half a moment, and the hissing whispers started insinuating back into Aziraphale's mind, but then he stood, a little unsteadily, and with a rather limp gesture said, “Lead the way, angel.”

Aziraphale, giving far more care to the demon's footsteps than he really had any right to, led Crowley back to the library. At the door, he could feel his Master's hesitation for one brief moment, but it was gone so quickly that he didn't even have time to react to it himself, and instead pushed open the door and led Crowley inside.

“Would you sit, Master?” It was a question, it had to be a question, because despite the current bravery that Aziraphale was feeling, ordering his Master was still a step too far.

Fortunately, Crowley nodded and settled himself on the sofa. Aziraphale handed him the coffee that was sitting on the table—his Master must have miracled it up for himself—and went to retrieve a book.

He wasn't looking for anything in particular, and his gaze fell upon a book of modern retellings of fairy tales—the Disney versions, not the Grimm Brothers. The versions with happy endings. Perfect.

Aziraphale trotted the book back to the sofa and settled near his Master: not too close but not too far, letting the demon determine the distance, opened the pages, and began to read.

…

Crowley didn't close the distance this time. He was quite honestly too busy feeling whiplash from everything that had preceded this: talking about Falling, and then Aziraphale saying that he was Forgiven—not in that pompous Holier-Than-Thou tone he'd used outside the bookshop, the last time they'd talked Before—but like he meant it with all his angelic soul...and then Aziraphale actually taking the lead, and bringing him to the library and choosing to read to him.

So the demon curled up around the coffee (where'd that come from? Who knows) that the angel had given him and just listened to tales where there was a Happily Ever After—the Princess and the Prince always rode off into the sunset together.

And the very fact that he was here, listening to Aziraphale read, made him wonder if, maybe, all those happy endings that his angel was retelling so masterfully, might, perhaps, actually be possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so glad I get to write Aziraphale again. And that these two are starting to figure things out.


	19. A Crowd of Thousands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you get the reference I'm making with the chapter title, you'll know what's coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to post this update--I promised myself, though, that I have to finish this story before I write anything else and I have like...six more Good Omens plots to write...

Of course, real life wasn't as simple as a fairy tale. There was not magic potion or spell that made everything turn out all right—you had to work at it, even if you were a demon in possession of reality-altering miracles.

And Crowley was trying so hard.

He'd decreased his drinking even more, doing his best to face his problems rather than run away from them (what a concept). Crowley was willing to leave the angel alone, to trust that Aziraphale would still be there, humming to himself amongst the books, when he got back. He'd gone back to the big library and sought out that lovely young demon Sylvester to try and continue his research into Aziraphale's collar and memory. Unfortunately, as helpful as he tried to be, not much progress was being made there since most of the relevant documents continued to be classified or not-yet-filed. Crowley hated Hell's organization system. Maybe he'd write a memo about it...

He also continued working on convincing Aziraphale that everything was really going to be all right. Since the day they'd gone back into the library, that had become a ritual for them. After a long day, they'd retire to the sofa, where Aziraphale's soft voice would drift through the air, weaving tales from far away places and lands, and Crowley would inevitable fall asleep. 

At first, he kept to his side of the sofa, but eventually his serpentine nature couldn't let him stay away from the warm, glowing presence that was Aziraphale, and Crowley soon found himself dozing off leaning against the angel's shoulder. Fortunately they were not interrupted by anyone banging on the door again.

This might have had to do with the notice Crowley had posted that more or less said that anyone attempting to knock past a certain time of day would meet with a very vividly described and incredibly unfortunate fate.

So they were left alone.

And it was, well...

Nice.

But the thing about Nice was that, firstly, it was a four letter word of which Crowley was not particularly fond, and secondly, as the days turned into weeks, he worried that this was all he would ever get.

Not that having Aziraphale here, at least physically safe, able to read books and drink tea and listen to Puccini wasn't an enormous relief compared to the many years when Crowley thought that the angel was most certainly dead, but.

It wasn't what he wanted.

He want HIS Aziraphale. He wanted the angel who talked back, who had rebelled with him against the forces of Heaven and Hell—the First Liar, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, so strong and yet so gentle and who had so fallen in love with Earth (with Crow...no, not going there) that he had given up everything...

Crowley wanted his best friend.

And so he tried the only way he knew how.

He kept talking.

When Aziraphale wasn't reading to him, and Crowley wasn't out banging his head against the books in the Library of Hell, the demon would lounge on the sofa and just let his silver tongue wag. Human tales from before the Apocalypse, old gossip he'd always wanted to share with the angel (“Oh Aziraphale you just HAVE to see what Lord Beelzebub has done to their office—I think people on Earth called it Modern Architecture, and I swear I didn't have anything to do with it. They invented it all by themselves and it's absolutely atrocious”), and what Crowley had been up to, all those times he wasn't semi-purposefully running into the angel everywhere he could find him on Earth.

And Aziraphale listened in that same way he had since he'd arrived: like he was hearing someone talk in the background about things he really had no interest or personal investment in. 

It was during one of those long rambles that Crowley realized something he couldn't believe he'd forgotten about.

“Angel,” he literally interrupted himself during a particularly extended rant about the new way Dagon was filing paperwork which made it even more completely impossible to find anything even remotely useful. It was very nearly word-for-word what Sylvester had told him earlier...he'd been short on ideas that day.

“Yes, Master?”

Crowley, who had been lying upside down on the couch, with his head hanging off the seat and his feet dangling over the back, slithered into a more reasonable position, “I never finished fixing your wings.”

Aziraphale paused from where he was sorting some books, balanced somewhat precariously on the ladder that had appeared here from somewhere, now that he'd mostly organized the books on the lower shelves, “No...I suppose you didn't, Master.”

“Would...” Crowley swallowed, “Would you like me to?”

He honestly half-expected Aziraphale to say 'no', at which point Crowley would nod, acknowledge the angel's boundaries, and sink back into pondering what random piece of information to share with him next, trying to pretend like he might, sometime, respond with his own witticism. And that this was a reality that the demon was okay with living in.

But the angel, after a long moment, finally nodded and clambered down the ladder—somehow still perfectly graceful, even as he simultaneously reached to unbutton his waistcoat.

Crowley flopped into a shape approximating a puddle in front of the couch, and only managed to straighten himself up as Aziraphale set his neatly folded jacket of the arm of the couch. As the angel unbuttoned his vest, Crowley tried very hard not to stare at Aziraphale's dexterous fingers—they were finally back to being nearly as soft and delicate as he remembered—and really didn't do a fantastic job. He was approximately 95% sure that Aziraphale knew he was watching...but only about 15% sure that the angel actually then accentuated certain movements in response to it.

The demon felt a slight blush rise to his cheeks, and attempted to look away, but constantly found his eyes sliding back to admire the smoothness of Aziraphale's motions—the fluidity of him folding his vest, and then reaching to pull his undershirt over his head to reveal the softness of his back and midsection which Crowley was fairly certain still hid quite a large amount of angelic strength.

Finally, though, the angel's clothes were all perfectly folded on the couch, and Aziraphale himself had settled on the rug in front of Crowley. 

With a WHOOSH, the angel's wings filled the room, so unexpectedly and without warning that Crowley almost jumped (the key word being almost—he was a 6000 year old demon, he refused on principle to be surprised by such things).

He always forgot how beautiful the angel's wings were. Every single time: even when they'd been bent and bloodied and broken, they had radiated an inherent aura of Pristine Beauty (so different from the feeling one got from Crowley's oil-slick black wings) and that was still true. 

Crowley couldn't help himself from murmuring, as he gently reached to stroke down the spot where the angel's wings met his back, “Gorgeous...”

He couldn't see the soft blush that colored the angel's cheeks.

For a few moments, Crowley once again took some time to figure out where to start. Because, despite his appreciation of the angel's wings, they still weren't in particularly good shape—feathers were still out of place, dingy from years of neglect. While his mind was occupied with analysis though, his fingers went right ahead, gently smoothing through the angel's feathers. Aziraphale shuddered slightly, and Crowley instantly snapped back to himself.

“Was that all right angel?”

Aziraphale answered quickly, “Sorry, Master—it's fine. It feels...nice.”

And there was that four-letter word again. Nonetheless, reassured, Crowley went back to work, figuring that it was probably better to trust his hands to do this right and let his mind continue to wander.

Although the topic it wandered to continued to be, of course, Aziraphale's wings.

“You know, the first time I saw your wings, angel, I never would have thought that I'd ever get to touch them. You didn't wear them out in the garden much, not when you were anywhere that Those Two might have seen you. And I was a bit of a late comer, you know, didn't show up until after She'd made most of the world, so I didn't get to see you at first. You spent most of your time up on that bloody wall—I never was sure whether She made that wall to keep things in or keep things out...”

Crowley considered a particularly bad spot of feathers, “You might feel just a pinch, angel.”

Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley carefully pulled out the damaged feather. It said something about what the angel was used to that he didn't even flinch, and Crowley had to resist the urge to just collect the angel up in his arms and take away all the bad things that had ever happened to him since Eden...

“You thought it was to keep things out. Do you remember? If you hadn't, I don't think you would have given them your sword.”

Crowley sighed, his golden eyes fixed on something in the far distant past, “Can you imagine what it did to me? There you were, standing on the wall, a proper Guardian, with those great white wings behind you—this poor simple serpent stood no chance.” Crowley half smiled, “And then not only did you not smite me for talking to you—can you imagine if it was Gabriel who had been standing there? I'd have been a snake-shaped spot on the bricks of the wall faster than I could say 'That went down like a lead balloon'--not ONLY did you not smite me on sight, but you told me...you told me that you gave your sword away. Your flaming sword, the one that She had given you to guard the wall—you gave it to the humans because...”

Crowley shook his head, “You weren't an angel. You were,” and here his voice cracked slightly, “You were just enough of a bastard to go against Heaven's orders and do what you, yourself, thought was right. And I knew, I knew right then that you would be worth like—knowing.”

He sniffed, and pulled himself together, “But you still questioned it, of course. You said...”

“What if I did the wrong thing?”

“Exactly—and then I told you...” It took Crowley a moment to realize that Aziraphale had spoken, and he lost his train of thought, “I told you...”

The words were soft but steady, “You're an angel. I don't think it's possible for you to do the wrong thing.”

“But...that...I didn't tell you that.”

Slowly, Aziraphale turned around, his wings automatically adjusting so that they swept with feather-lightness around Crowley's head, to finally reveal the angel's face—which was illuminated, his eyes brighter than the stars themselves.

“You didn't have to. I remember!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference, by the way, is to the Broadway show Anastasia, where the titular character also regains her memories in a way very similarly to what happens here.
> 
> Also hooray we finally got (some of) Aziraphale back!
> 
> Also also, I wish they'd kept the original wording of "Just enough of a bastard to be worth liking" which is how it is in the book.


	20. Coming Back to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale begins to remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter just needed to get finished--it kept getting delayed by Life getting in the way and gosh darn it I need to get this story completed.

For a timeless moment, the two of them just stared at each other, silently.

Crowley was still trying to wrap his head around it—was it true? Could it possibly be that Aziraphale actually remembered, that he had actually succeeded in his fairy-tale ending? And as his brain was spiraling through these thoughts over and over, he realized that his mouth was hanging open and he was more or less flat out gawking at the angel.

Aziraphale, for his part, had lost some of the initial light in his face as he felt the overwhelming tide of memories wash over him—and this wasn't even all of them, he could tell there were more—but there was the garden.

“Eden...and us standing on the wall...and it rained for the very first time, and you--” he couldn't help a tiny little smile, “You came and stood under my wing. Crowley.” He let the name roll off his tongue, savoring it like he would a particularly decadent treat—it felt so much better to say it, knowing all the memories—all the emotions—behind it.”

“Yes...you weren't Crowley then, though, you changed it...later...not at the ark? When you saved all those children...” And he looked up, “Because you weren't a demon. You were deep down, just a little bit of a good person, and did what you, yourself, thought was right, even though your side wouldn't have approved...” There was that fond smile again, but then it vanished as Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut at the wave of nausea that crashed over him, “My...head...”

That actually shocked Crowley into action: he quickly reached to pull the angel towards him, settling him so Aziraphale was leaning against the couch, and pressed a cup of tea he'd miracled up into the angel's trembling hands.

“Take it slow, all right?”

“Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley just about discorporated on the spot: he'd never thought he would hear Aziraphale's adorable little endearments ever again (although if you asked them if he liked them, he would have vehemently denied it). But there it was—the little things he'd missed so much when he thought Aziraphale would never come back to him.

“You all right, angel?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath of tea steam, and slowly responded, “I...I think so. It's just, well, it's all a bit much to remember, all at once.”

Crowley was about to agree, before Aziraphale added, “And I don't...I don't even think I remember all of it.”

“What do you mean?” The demon tilted his head.

“Well,” Aziraphale took a sip of his tea—his wings had curled protectively around his shoulders, but somehow when Crowley had moved him over to where they were now, the demon had become wrapped in the fluffy embrace of pearl-colored feathers as well, “Well, I can remember the garden. I remember what the air smelled like, all effervescent with greenery, and the way that the grass curled under your feet and there would never dare to be anything sharp hidden there, and the way the walls reached up towards the sky, and how the air felt, that very first time that there was lightning...but after that, it's...fuzzier.”

He furrowed his brow, turning to Crowley but not looking at the demon, instead peering through him, like the inner workings of his companion would somehow illuminate his memories, “I remember the ark. But it's not clear—not yet. Everything's all jumbled around.”

Crowley let out a whoosh of air he hadn't realized he'd been holding (of course, he didn't need to breathe so he might never have noticed).

This still wasn't his Aziraphale. Not really. This was pre-Arrangement Aziraphale, more or less. Still kind, still willing to tempt him to oysters (hopefully), still sitting here in a demon's library without panicking...but not HIS Aziraphale.

Thinking back on what had been said during those last few days...maybe that was for the best.

He was shocked back to reality (again), however, when Aziraphale blinked and appeared to actually see Crowley sitting there, right next to him, their shoulders pressed together and the white angel wing folded around them.

“Crowley—Crowley you...” Aziraphale was a master of the written word, but speaking had never particularly been his forte, and now he was feeling at a loss for how to proceed, “You...” One hand kept ahold of his tea, but the other fluttered, like it was grasping for words that he couldn't quite find.

Crowley, rubbish demon that he was, took pity on him, murmuring softly, “I know, angel.”

“No!” Crowley was a bit taken aback at Aziraphale's emphatic denial, “You don't...you don't...Crowley—you...you saved me.”

“I did?”

“You did! You brought me here...out of the dark, even though I was...” Crowley had never seen anyone's face vacillate between pale white shock and flaming red embarrassment so quickly. Aziraphale covered a gasp, and rather suddenly dived into his knees, hiding his face, as his wings whooshed over Crowley's head to entirely hide the angel from view behind a white fluffy curtain.

“Aziraphale?!”

“I'm all right,” the angel's voice was muffled, “It's just...you've seen me in some rather...oh dear...some rather compromising situations, haven't you?”

Crowley rubbed the back of his neck, not sure what to say, because it was true. The old Aziraphale, as fussy and proper as he was, would never have been caught dead wandering around anywhere stark naked, and certainly not...

“And I...oh goodness...” Aziraphale's wing cocoon tightened, “I tried to—no, I DID kiss you...”

Crowley shifted to sit in front of Aziraphale, not sure what to say except, “You did, angel.”

“But...” And the curtain of wings parted just enough so that one of Aziraphale's bright blue eyes—Satan, Crowley had forgotten how Aziraphale's eyes were somehow literally ever color of the sea all at once: brilliant blue with flashes of silver and aquamarine, and sometimes even a flicker of deep green—could peer through, “But...you didn't take advantage of me.”

“I couldn't angel. Not ever.”

For a moment, Aziraphale's one eye studied him, reading him like he was a book with all his emotions typed out in meticulously edited font. Crowley did his absolute best not to fidget under the scrutiny.

Then, finally, the angel said, rather abruptly, “Would you finish grooming my wings, Crowley?”

“I...wh—ngk,” replied Crowley, very eloquently, before managing, “Do you still want me to?”

“Well,” Aziraphale slowly folded his wings back, “You didn't take advantage of me when I was in a much more vulnerable position. So there's no reason, really, to think that something bad would happen now.”

Crowley opened and closed his mouth several times. There were ways he could argue (“I'm a demon you never know what might happen”)--but he didn't WANT to disagree with the angel's logic. He wanted to finish making the angel's wings soft and beautiful.

As if he could tell what Crowley was thinking—it was Aziraphale, he probably could even without all his memories—the angel added, “I would...I would really like to see them all properly fixed again. I haven't since...since I don't know when...”

And that, of course, was what did it. Crowley could never refuse the face the angel was making—just the tiniest bit of a pouty lip, eyes flickering upwards with just the smallest glimmer of hope—and he sighed softly (it wasn't a fond sigh, no matter what anybody who heard it would have said) and nodded.

“If that's what you want, angel. Turn 'round.”

With a little wiggle—Crowley felt his heart practically jump up his throat at that—Aziraphale turned around, flaring his wings out again so that Crowley could preen them. 

For a few moments, the demon worked in silence, before he quietly murmured, “You've heard all my stories now, Aziraphale. Won't you tell me some of yours? What you remember?”

“Hm...I suppose so. It might help me recall more of my past.”

Crowley nodded in agreement, although Aziraphale was facing away from him and couldn't see. The angel rested his arms on the couch and settled his chin on top of them, before letting his words drift around the room.

“I told you I remember the garden—that's clear now. And...and Before that. I never knew you remembered Falling.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley half shrugged, “I don't go round advertising it.”

“Do all demons remember?”

“Dunno. We don't exactly have discussion groups about it.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale nodded, “I suppose not.”

“Anyways.” Crowley prompted.

“Yes. Well. I remember Eden. And...and I remember you. You were always there, even after the Garden.”

“Not always, angel.”

“You were the one constant, in 6000 years of living on Earth. Heaven changed. The world changed. But you...you were always there, always ready to go out to whatever new restaurant was recommended to have the best alcohol,” Crowley could hear the smile in Aziraphale's voice, “Always...”

“Tempting you?”

“Well you are a demon.”

“Always. Quite the dangerous tempter, me.”

Aziraphale chuckled softly, and Crowley would have been annoyed if he hadn't been so very pleased to hear the sound at all, “Do you remember when I asked you if you were still a demon? And you said...”

“What else did you expect me to be, an aardvark?” Crowley mimicked his exact tone of voice from all those years ago, and Aziraphale's soft laugh filled the room again, making Crowley's chest feel warm and tight.

“Can you turn into an aardvark, though? I'd always wondered.”

“Course I can.”

“Mmm...I suppose it's just a matter of wishing it...were aardvarks even discovered then? I don't remember where they ended up living, after the Garden. I don't think they were in Rome though...” Aziraphale's soft ramblings filled up Crowley's entire essence and he was very glad that Aziraphale was not looking back to see the utterly stupid grin that he could not keep off his face as he worked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll finally hear from Aziraphale properly next chapter,


	21. Light and Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally hear some from Aziraphale, and the two of them make a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I finally have time to finish this story at a reasonable rate, now that I'm on break? We shall just have to see.

If Aziraphale was being honest with himself, which, to be fair, he was notoriously terrible at, he was really letting himself ramble while looking away from Crowley so that he could try and sort out his jumbled memories. 

It was, he thought, rather like turning the faucet just a bit and instead of a nice stream of water to fill your mug with, having the entire thing explode and completely flood your kitchen. He was drowning in memories: every moment another image popped into his head and he was constantly having to sort through them and determine where each one fit in with his narrative—who he was, who Crowley was, what their relationship was...and all of those were difficult categories to determine because they had apparently changed dramatically throughout the years they'd known each other, and since Aziraphale knew his memories still weren't current, he had no way of really knowing what important developments might have come later.

Which, on that note, he knew there must have been something. The way his heart fluttered at the feeling of Crowley's hands gently carding through his feathers, this almost intimate act of pure trust...he was trusting a DEMON, turning his back to him, letting him see his wings...you would have thought, after all the bad experiences he'd had with demons recently that there was no way he'd allow this.

But Crowley was different. Just as he had felt safe with Crowley even before he'd regained any memories, now he felt like...well, it was a rather silly feeling, but he felt like Crowley was the embodiment of Home. The angel felt safe and protected and calm...

And, even better, being here with Crowley dexterously fluffing his wings—well, those were new memories, ones that Aziraphale could focus on in the Now, in the Present, and help to keep his head above the inundation of past memories, both good and bad...

He hadn't even realized he'd stopped talking until he heard Crowley's voice filling up the silence, “Angel? Still all right?”

Crowley smoothed down the edge of Aziraphale's wings, and the angel forced himself not to shiver from a funny tingling feeling that sparkled down his spine.

“Yes, quite, my dear.”

“Where are you at now?”

Aziraphale considered that for a moment, “I'm...not sure. I remember...I remember you telling me that you showed Him all the kingdoms of the world...”

“At Golgotha,” Crowley's voice was soft and slightly sad.

“Yes. Humans can be so cruel...”

“Demons and angels aren't exactly model citizens either.”

Aziraphale wanted to protest that angels were, well, Angelic...but something made him hold his tongue. Something...just on the edge of his mind...it was Important, it was...

A sharp pain shot through his temple, and Aziraphale gave a soft cry and clutched his head, mentally diving away from the pursuit of that particular memory. For a moment, the pain was so intense that he didn't even realize that Crowley had pulled him close, and was murmuring, over and over, “All right angel...all right angel...”

“I'm...I'm so sorry,” Aziraphale managed once the pain had receded, turning his head slightly—only to find that Crowley's face was RIGHT THERE, much closer than they'd ever really gotten in his memories yet...at least before the most recent ones. He was going to say more, but the words died on his lips before they could find their way into the air.

Crowley was apparently also temporarily stunned, but recovered more quickly, with a practiced flippant, “Nothing to apologize for angel; it wasn't a feather, was it?”

“No...no it was something...” Aziraphale almost tried to dig for the memory again, but a twinge of pain made him retreat again, “Something I want to remember but can't.”

“It'll come to you angel.” 

“I...I hope so, dear boy.”

They were close enough this time that Aziraphale couldn't miss the ghost of a smile that swooped across Crowley's face at the endearment, but the demon smothered it quickly and settled back again, “Well, angel, I think your wings are all sorted.”

“Really?” Aziraphale took a breath, and stretched out one pearly white wing.

It really was—effervescent was the word that came to mind, and the sight took Aziraphale's breath away.

He remembered, perfectly, what his wings had looked like for the past...since he could remember in Hell. Broken and bent and battered and dirty—barely wings at all. But now...every feather was in place, glittering and gleaming like they actually belonged to one of Her Messengers, wreathed in beauty and light and hope, bringing the Good News to all.

“Oh...Crowley...” he breathed, slowly rising and stretching out both wings wide, feeling the feathers barely ruffle from the breeze, “They're beautiful.”

And, so quietly that he thought he might have imagined it, Aziraphale thought he hear Crowley say, “You are.”

When his wings were first fixed, Aziraphale had been jubilant, exuberant in his joy, but now his appreciation was almost reverent. His ocean blue eyes—and they really were ocean blue now, like glacier ponds, perfect pristine blue—sparkled with tears as he breathed out softly, “Thank you.”

Crowley rose, a smooth, languid motion, that Aziraphale was sure couldn't be accomplished by a normal person with a solid bone structure, to stand by him—the two contrasting, angel and demon, light and dark...

“Could you...” Aziraphale spoke impulsively, instinctively, but then lost confidence halfway through, “Could you...maybe...”

“Yes, angel?”

Aziraphale ducked his chin and took a deep breath, before looking up to meet Crowley's amber-colored eyes, “Could you bring out yours too?”

He could tell that the question surprised the demon—he knew enough to read the expression that skittered across Crowley's face faster than a wish—but he nodded, “Anything for you angel.”

Given what the demon had done for him in the past weeks, Aziraphale was inclined to believe this was true.

But with a deep WHOOSH noise, he was entirely diverted from any ponderings, and entirely entranced by Crowley's wings.

He'd seen them, of course, both in the Garden and more recently, but in neither occasion had he been in the right presence of mind to really admire the splendid inky black feathers, which seemed to absorb all light and then, at the exactly the right angle, reflect back shimmering rainbows of color. 

And Aziraphale had never really had the opportunity to do what he could now: brush his own glimmering white wings up against Crowley's oil slick black ones and marvel at the similarities and differences—both deeply beautiful, but in ways that were as different as, well...Heaven and Hell.

“The dichotomy of beauty...I'm sure that's in a book somewhere...” he murmured to himself, reaching out one had to almost brush at the line where light and dark met...

It shouldn't have taken him so long to realize that Crowley was shifting uncomfortably under his scrutiny, and Aziraphale quickly pulled back his wings, apologizing, “I'm sorry, dear boy.”

Crowley's facade of suavity instantly reappeared, and he shrugged, the motion making his wings ripple, “'S'all right angel.”

But Aziraphale had gotten on a bit of a roll, and wasn't stopping yet, “No, I really am, and not just for that, I mean...I know that caring for me over the last few weeks has not been easy for you, but you didn't ever stop trying...and I want you to know how truly grateful I am for that.”

Crowley shifted, not able to meet the angel's earnest gaze, and stuffed his hands in his far-too-small-for-this pockets as his wings folded back around him, “Yeah...well...I expect you would have done the same for me.”

There was an aura of 'I hope' that Aziraphale could sense around Crowley's last statement—of course, the angel realized, because while angels were helpful to all Her creatures, demons were...well, demons. He imagined that they weren't exactly expecting to be treated well, by angels or anybody else.

So he hastened to add, “Of course,” and, somewhat of its own will, his right hand reached out to rest on Crowley's shoulder.

They both stared at it for a moment, before Aziraphale blushed and quickly retracted his hand to brush through his blond curls, “Anyhow. Thank you.”

There was an awkward silence for several moments before the angel finally asked, “What now?”

“Weeeeell,” Crowley drew out the word, and squinted slightly at the angel as if sizing him up. Aziraphale crossed his arms and tapped his foot (and, just to be clear dear reader, Crowley's heart sped up to about double speed at the action).

Finally, Crowley sighed, and looked away, brushing a hand through his own hair, “It's not going to be easy, angel. After all, even if you had ALL your memories back, there's still the matter of your collar.”

“My...” Aziraphale had almost forgotten about it, and reached up to feel the smooth metal, so perfectly fitted that it almost felt like it was part of his skin, “Oh. Yes.”

“And I've been researching that as much as I can at the library, but I haven't gotten very far...”

“Library?” Aziraphale's ears pricked up, “Not your library?”

“No, the big one—it's actually more or less the ghost of the Library of Alexandria...”

Aziraphale had to stop himself from grabbing the demon and shaking him with excitement and instead settled for nearly shouting, “The Library of Alexandria is HERE!?”

“Well, yeah—don't ask me how, but I mean the collection is nearly the same as what I remember from when you took me there...”

“Let me look there.”

Crowley blinked, “You?”

“Yes, dear boy. After all, you never were one for research; that's always been my particular pastime. I might be able to figure something out.”

“It'll be dangerous angel—taking you out. You will have to behave like...”

“A slave. I know.” Aziraphale drew himself up, and tried to project his Angel of the Southern Gate aura, “I survived this far. I can masquerade a little more.”

Crowley looked unsure, but also couldn't stand up to Aziraphale when he was being this stubborn, so finally shrugged, “All right, angel. I'll see what I can arrange.”

“That's settled then; don't worry, my dear, I'm sure we can figure something out.” Aziraphale finally dared to smile, and the answering, if tentative, smile he coaxed from Crowley was entirely worth it.


	22. Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A break in the action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh darn it I'm going to get this story finished. I finally figured out how it's going to get to the end...now I just have to actually get it written there.

For the first time since...well, since before the Apocalypse, Crowley and Aziraphale dined together properly. Like there hadn't been dozens of years full of all sorts of unmentionable torments since the last time.

“Where did we go? The last time we ate together.” Aziraphale asked. His memories had been slowly slotting themselves into place: Crowley could judge that they were about at the year 1000 proper now. Still pre-Arrangement, but only just. So despite the fact that the angel was asking about more recent events, he couldn't remember them—or at least, it was more like remembering a vague story someone told you in your childhood. A few emotions, a flash of a particular scene, but nothing more concrete than that.

Crowley tilted his head, “I think it must have been that little cafe—when you asked me if I had One Single Better Idea, in that voice you have, you know, where you know the answer perfectly well but ask anyway to make a point.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and lowered his eyelids in an expression of quiet smugness, “Well I do try to be correct.”

Crowley half-smiled and rolled his eyes, “I know, angel.”

Aziraphale put down his fork and patted his lips with the napkin that had somehow appeared next to his plate, “Well, that was scrumptious, thank you Crowley.”

The demon just nodded, and reached for his glass, which contrary to his recent habits only held a very small amount of amber liquid.

And for a moment, they just sat in the kind of easy, companionable silence that Crowley had forgotten could exist with another living creature. No words needed to be said. Both man-shaped beings were lost in their own recollections—Aziraphale now recalling that exceptionally damp day in England when Crowley had been the Black Knight, and Crowley more or less staring dreamily at the angel who was finally Here, back with him again, and wondering if he was actually still in an alcohol-induced sleep and just enjoying a particularly wonderful fantasy. He thought about pinching himself, but dismissed the thought as childish.

Eventually, though, the weariness of the day full of revelations caught up to both of them.

“It's so odd to feel tired,” Aziraphale wrinkled his forehead, “I never felt tired on Earth.” His expression easily informed Crowley that the angel was quite put out with the unfamiliar feeling.

“It's not so bad once you get used to it.” Crowley smiled and stretched back in his chair, “I think I told you I slept through a whole century once—not a terrible way to spend a hundred years.”

Aziraphale looked unconvinced.

“Oh, no need to fuss, angel. Neither of us will sleep for a century, but the demon I want isn't even at the library right now.” (He'd memorized Sylvester's hours after figuring out that most of the other librarians were less than useless for finding what information he wanted: even in Hell they had reasonable working hours, or else the unions would have complained). “And besides, I think it would help the situation a lot if you had a few more centuries on your memory.”

“...I suppose, yes...and I do apologize, I know it must still be difficult for you, since you recall so much more of our arrangement than I do.”

Crowley's heart leaped at the word 'arrangement' but the intonation told him that Aziraphale was not giving it the capital letter that their proper Arrangement would garner later. So instead he waved a hand generously.

“It's all right angel. A few weeks ago I never thought I'd get to have dinner with you like this ever again, so I'm already feeling like the luckiest demon alive.” Crowley smiled languidly, although the expression didn't quite touch his eyes.

“I'm glad,” the angel smiled back, before a yawn took over his visage, “Oh! I cannot get used to this corporeal function—it's so odd.”

“Never yawned before angel?” now the smile did reach Crowley's eyes, “You missed out. Go rest.”

“Yes, I suppose I shall,” Aziraphale rose gracefully from the table—Heaven, Crowley had forgotten how precise and fluid the angel's movements were—and gave a last small smile to the demon, “Good night, Crowley.”

“Night, Aziraphale.”

Long after the door to the angel's room had clicked shut, the demon sat at the table and stared into space.

…

“NO YOU CAN'T!” Aziraphale sat bolt upright in bed, breathing heavily. He'd been dreaming—he'd never dreamed before that he could remember—dreaming about bad things. Yes. No. Yes, it was...it was something from before...and that splitting headache drove its claws back into his temples, forcing the angel to press his hands on the side of his head, feeling like it was the only way to keep his pounding brain from exploding out from behind his eyes.

Slowly, the pain receded, but the feeling of anxiety bordering on terror, which was what had originally wakened him, kept dogging him. He was far too on edge to go back to sleep—he didn't want to anyways. While Crowley might be an avid advocate of the pastime, it seemed far too frivolous for the angel to enjoy.

Especially when it came with...whatever That was.

Aziraphale drew the covers back around him, suddenly very convinced that whatever it was in his dreams was going to come careering out of the darkened shelves around him. His blue eyes flickered about, trying to see through the impenetrable darkness, and he wished that he had Crowley's ability to see perfectly in the dark.

Crowley. He was, after all, just down the hall, and, maybe, given the circumstances...well, perhaps he wouldn't mind if Aziraphale brought a book and went to join him. Especially given their Arrangement, and after Paris...

Aziraphale had to push down a nearly overwhelming choking tidal wave of fear at the thought that suddenly apparated into his mind, the fear that Heaven Would Find Out. Heaven Would Find Out and they would do something terrible to Aziraphale and Crowley, dear Crowley—Aziraphale shook his head, finding himself clutching one of his down pillows, “Don't be silly. Heaven doesn't even exist anymore. So, really, there's no need for all of this...fussing.” The sound of his own voice drew him back into the moment, forcing him to breathe slowly an ease his corporation's tension, “And, after all, Crowley has been absolutely wonderful and taken marvelous care of you since you came here.”

A creaking noise that was, his rational mind told him, undoubtedly just the wood of his bookshelves settling, sent his corporation's heart racing again, and he quickly slid out of bed and darted on miraculously light feet down the hall to the door that he knew belonged to Crowley.

Outside, however, he paused again for a moment.

He hadn't ever been in Crowley's room before. Not even that he could remember on Earth: they'd met in the bookshop—yes, his bookshop, on that street corner in Soho, where he'd tried very hard not to sell any books—or at parks, or driven round in the Bentley (why he even remembered the Bentley he couldn't figure out because it didn't line up with his other memories) but they'd never...never actually visited each others' personal spaces.

But the continued prickle of anxiety pushed him forward, and he turned the black handle of the door—of course, sculpted to look like a hissing serpent, Crowley was such a vain thing—and slunk in.

Most of the space in the room, which he couldn't examine very well in the dark, was taken up by an extremely large four poster bed, all done up in brilliant reds and deep blacks (of course), which was currently swathed in shadows enough to muffle its grandeur, but Aziraphale could just make out the rise and fall of the covers—and the soft but unmistakable sound of hissing breath—that told him Crowley was there.

Almost unconsciously, Aziraphale found himself drawn to the side of the bed, staring at the demon. Crowley looked...softer. When he was asleep. The edges of his cheekbones were softened in the dim light, and his flame red hair looked darker, almost black, even against the backdrop of the (overly dramatic) jet black sheets.

Well. He was here now. Best not to wait: after all, it wouldn't do at all for Crowley to wake up and find the angel looming over him unexpectedly.

So with another deep breath, Aziraphale reached out to place a hand on the demon's arm and whispered, “Crowley? Crowley?”

“Ngk...” The sound Crowley made as his (literally glowing) amber eyes flickered open was not one that could be found in any dictionary, but as his eyes met the angel's, he suddenly went from rather sleepy to sitting up ramrod straight in about a second flat, “Aziraphale? Is something wrong?”

“No, no my dear.” Aziraphale couldn't help how his hands fluttered nervously—or his one free hand, anyways, since it seemed the pillow he'd been holding earlier had made the journey with him, along with the book he'd pulled randomly from his shelves, “I just...I couldn't sleep.”

Reassured that nothing was immediately wrong, Crowley slouched back into his bed, yawning enough to give Aziraphale a very good view of his slightly-too-sharp canine teeth—but then, mid-yawn, he squinted, studying the angel's expression, “Did you have a nightmare, angel?”

“I...well...I did have a very...anxiety-provoking dream I suppose...” Aziraphale was tugging nervously at the pillowcase.

“That's a nightmare, angel.” Crowley said, sympathetically, “You've never had one before, have you? You didn't sleep at all on Earth. And 'sides,” he wrinkled his nose, “I don't think angels could have nightmares before...I don't think I had any before I Fell.”

There was a brief uncomfortable silence while the two of them stared at each other, Aziraphale with wide eyes and bated breath and Crowley with long sleepy blinks, before Aziraphale finally blurted out, “Might I sit here with you?”

Crowley looked startled, and so Aziraphale continued hurriedly, realizing that he was babbling but somehow unable to stop, “It's just rather dark out there, you know, and it's not really what I'm familiar with anymore, not that I really know what I am familiar with I suppose, and I have to admit I was feeling a bit anxious about...”

The demon shushed him, “Aziraphale. Of course you can stay.”

“Oh. Thank you,” the smile the angel gave him quite literally lit up the room, and Crowley had to blink at the sudden intrusion on his night vision.

“Course, angel.”

Aziraphale looked around, his glow fading as he promptly went back to his modus operandi of Fussing About Everything, “Well...I don't know that you have any chairs in here...I suppose I can just sit on the floor...”

“Don't be ridiculous angel; the bed's more than big enough for two,” Crowley scooted over to the far side, patting the mattress beside him.

Aziraphale stared at him, a soft blush creeping up his cheeks that he sincerely hoped the demon couldn't see in the dim light, “Oh...um...well I...”

Crowley couldn't help rolling his eyes, “Come on, angel. I'm far too tired for Temptations right now.”

“I thought evil never slept,” Aziraphale quipped to hide his nerves, slowly and tentatively settling right on the edge of the bed, which, he had to admit, was every bit as soft and comfortable as he'd imagined it would be. If more than a bit ostentatious.

“Well this particular evil has had a long day,” Crowley yawned again, and waved a hand, “Make yourself comfortable angel.” Before he had even finished speaking, he'd settled back down into the plush pillows, practically asleep as his tousled head hit the pillow.

Aziraphale, still perched on the edge of the bed, watched him for a moment as the demon's breathing returned to its slumbering sussurations, and then slowly drew his legs up and scooted back to lean against the rather ridiculous pile of pillows.

It was really too dark to read here, but Aziraphale found that he didn't mind the shadows nearly as much with Crowley nearby—and slowly he found his own head nestled on the pillows, watching the demon through lidded eyes which eventually drifted closed on their own.

And if at some point during the night, the reptilian heat-seeking nature of a certain demon caused him to end up snuggled against the angel's warm chest, well...neither of them were awake to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And if you're surprised that Crowley is being so chill about all of this, know that he is too tired to be aware of it right now but is definitely going to have thoughts about it in the morning.


	23. A Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something important is discovered

When Crowley awoke, he was curled up in an angel-shaped indentation in his mattress, with his nose pressed into an angel-scented pillow: hot chocolate and old books, just a hint of lilac, and way down there somewhere still lingered the antiseptic smell of Heaven—not enough to make his nose wrinkle, but enough to remind him that it was there.

For a moment, Crowley drifted on the soft current that is halfway between dreaming and reality before his brain suddenly supplied him with the exact situation which he had created the previous night.

His yellow eyes shot open, and the breathing he didn't really have to do anyways promptly stopped as he froze.

He'd slept with Aziraphale.

Okay, okay, not in that EXACT context, since nothing had really happened but. They'd shared a bed. He'd INVITED Aziraphale into his bed. And Aziraphale...had complied. Had even (Crowley let his tongue taste the air briefly. Yep), had even embraced the demon in some manner. In bed.

For half a moment, Crowley dared to entertain the notion that they had fallen asleep together, wrapped in each other's arms...

And then the demon's brain couldn't handle it and more or less spontaneously combusted for several minutes, while Crowley attempted to process his feelings about that. And definitely tried to ignore the flush to his pale cheeks, even though the thought percolated at the back of his mind...

Maybe...maybe Aziraphale—the REAL Aziraphale, HIS Aziraphale—actually...maybe, possibly, could really...

No. Nope. He was not going to deign that thought with actual realization because if he did then he would be acknowledging his heart's desire and he was a demon who did not deserve such happiness.

The sound of clinking china from down the hall finally pulled him up. Now was not the time to wallow—now was the time to figure out what to say to the angel.

Crowley sinuously slid out of bed, not bothering yet to change out of the black silk pajamas he had (because the type of human he'd pretended to be on Earth would definitely have worn silk pajamas and he'd never really bothered to drop that facade), and slithered along the wall down the hallway.

Before he even got to the kitchen, he'd begun, “Angel, I'm so sorry for, well, what happened last night—I'm afraid I was very tired and not really...thinking about what I was asking...”

As he entered the kitchen, his words trailed off at the spectacle before him. 

Aziraphale was making breakfast. Proper English breakfast—the kind with six different choices of what you wanted with various jams and toasts and eggs and beverages. The whole kitchen smelled warmly of fresh coffee and buttered toast and cinnamon, a combination which even Crowley couldn't deny was amazing.

That wasn't really the spectacular part though. The angel had made food before of course.

But this time, there was more.

The angel was wearing a pale apron over his usual three piece suit, the edges trimmed with lace (lace, really?) which not only was something that Crowley would never have had hanging around his apartments, but also wasn't something he'd ever have imagined that Aziraphale would wear. That in itself, Crowley could possibly have shrugged away as something the angel had discovered in some closet or ordered from somewhere or gotten added to the garment bag by mistake.

But it was the bananas that gave it away.

“Aziraphale.” Crowley's voice was stunned.

The angel stopped humming, where he was peering into the oven, and turned to address Crowley with a slightly bashful smile.

“Good morning, my dear—I hope you're hungry; I rather wanted to thank you for letting me sit up with you last night after my nightmare...”

Crowley hated himself for interrupting but, “Aziraphale. You're welcome, and I promise I'll talk about that in a minute, but where...where did you get those bananas?”

Aziraphale glanced at the gorgeous fruit tray that was sitting out on the counter, displaying a whole complement of rich ripe fruits, “I'm...I didn't? They were just here...”

Crowley strode over to the angel and took one of his hands, staring into his eyes, “Aziraphale. Can you do miracles?”

The angel stared back in shock, “No! No—you...you read those documents, you know what would happen if I did...” His free hand drifted up to the black band of his collar, “You'd be able to tell.”

Crowley couldn't help wincing slightly, remembering exactly what punishment the collar dealt out. He hoped Aziraphale had never had to experience that. But...

“Then how? How did you get that apron? Where did you find those bananas? You remember, I told you that they were impossible to find down here, properly, and that miracled ones just weren't the same, but these...” Crowley let go of Aziraphale's hands and grabbed one of the bright yellow fruits to wave in the angel's face, “These aren't Demonically miracled—at least not by me. I thought it was a bit weird last time, but I was so drunk that I wouldn't have been able to remember even if I had miracled them up, but this time I KNOW I didn't.”

“Then...” Aziraphale looked confused, his brow furrowing, “Then how did they get here? I assume no other demon would...”

“No.” Crowley responded firmly, and threw himself down at the table, staring at the banana like it had all the answers, “And you tell me, Aziraphale, how this is possible. You've always been the clever one, at puzzles like this.”

“I...” Aziraphale made a start and then frowned, turning on his heel to pace, “I recall you saying that. I remember all of being here since you brought me back, although a few pieces are a bit--” he waved his hand, “Fuzzy.”

Crowley was secretly rather glad of that—he'd rather the angel didn't remember the more painful, embarrassing moments of the early days very clearly.

“But...I don't know,” Aziraphale sat down in the chair—he was too proper to every fling himself anywhere—and threw up his hands, “I just...I really wanted you to have them. Since you said how difficult it was to find them.”

Crowley continued staring at the banana, “And I just wanted you to be happy, Aziraphale. That's all I wanted.”

It was silent enough for several minutes, that Crowley looked up just to make sure the angel was still there.

He was, and was staring at Crowley with a look that the demon, even after knowing the angel for 6000 years, couldn't decipher.

“What?”

“You really wanted me to have what I wanted...correct?”

“Of course.” No point in hiding that now. Aziraphale had to have known anyways.

“And I...hoped to find the things that you wanted—in this case bananas...do you suppose...” Aziraphale paused again, but then plowed ahead, “Do you suppose what is happening is that you are making my expecations real?”

Crowley stared at him, “What do you mean?”

“I mean...” Aziraphale's hands fluttered excitedly, “I mean that maybe you are expecting me to find whatever it is that I want. So when I look to find something, like a banana for example, you are actually miracling the world to create whatever it is that I want. And so technicaly, as an angel I am not using miracles, since you're the one doing it, which of course wouldn't cause the collar to activate.”

“That's...” Crowley thought, “Actually...possible I guess. Never heard of it happening before though...”

“Well with demons I wouldn't expect it to. Most of you are inherently and completely self-interested if what I've seen is anything to go by. So demons wouldn't have any chance.”

“And angels?”

“Well...” Aziraphale paused and a brief look of anguish flickered over his face before he continued, haltingly, “Angels. Aren't always as...angelic. As we might want you to believe.”

Crowley couldn't keep a straight face for that one, “Damn right you're not!”

“Oh hush,” Aziraphale gave a little disapproving shake of his head, although it was obvious he didn't mean much by it, “But...you know...neither demons nor angels really make a habit of, well, caring about each other.”

The last four words made Crowley's heart beat faster. The angel had basically just admitted to 'caring' about him—and while he knew, he KNEW that, somewhere in whatever remained of his damned soul...it was still startling to hear.

Aziraphale was looking at him though, and so he swallowed his feelings and said, “Yeah, suppose not.” And then, on impulse, “We could test it.”

“Oh? How do you propose...”

“I mean...just imagine that you find something that you really want. That I wouldn't have just around my kitchen. And let's see if it shows up.”

“Oh. Well...all right. I'd like...”

“No, don't tell me what it is.” Crowley said, “Just imagine, and then open that cupboard,” he gestured randomly, “And see if it's there.”

Aziraphale pondered for a moment, as Crowley stood and made his way over to the cupboard, “You got it angel?”

“Yes...I do believe so...”

“All right,” Crowley fully expected to find whatever it was that the angel had wanted, and so was mostly unsurprised when he opened the cupboard door to find a box of premium Jammy Dodgers. He'd forgotten all about those biscuits, with the shortbread around the outside and the jam center, but as soon as he saw them he remembered Aziraphale delighting in them for occasional special high teas.

“You didn't happen to want Jammy Dodgers, did you?”

“Why yes!” Aziraphale's face lit up, “They're not really breakfast material but I was thinking that for tea they might be quite...” he realized what they'd just accomplished, and his voice trailed off, “Nice.”

“Angel,” Crowley said, still staring at the box, “You can do miracles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise the bananas were always relevant


	24. Recall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They go to the library and Crowley tells part of his story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end here: I'm expecting 3 maybe 4 more chapters and one of them is actually written already.

“Well...I'll be damned...” Aziraphale said, softly as he settled back at the table, and Crowley only just managed to resist a snarky retort—now was not really the time, although the words danced on the tip of his tongue.

“What...what do you think that means?” The angel's voice was still soft and timid, and Crowley couldn't tell whether he was asking the question rhetorically or not. Either way, the demon didn't know the answer—or at least didn't want to put forth any theories about it, even though said theories were definitely present in his mind—so he stayed silent, simply placing the box of cookies next to Aziraphale's elbow and sitting back at his own place at the table.

Which is when his eyes glanced across the sleek black clock hanging on the wall, and he swore under his breath as he promptly leaped back up.

Aziraphale looked up sharply, eyes wide, “What?”

“We have to get ready to go! I promised Sylvester we'd be at the library in less than half an hour and I'm pretty sure I don't want to stand up what appears to be the only helpful demon in the entirety of Hell.” Crowley was darting back down the hallway, unbuttoning his pajamas as he went. As much as he still had A Lot to discuss with Aziraphale, that would just have to wait for the moment.

As usual, he didn't bother dressing the human way, and simply miracled himself his standard charcoal black suit out of thin air, adjusting his black sunglasses as he trotted back down the halllway, “Angel? You read...y?” 

He started stammering mid-word, because he'd rather forgotten—or more accurately, specifically tried to erase the idea from his thoughts—that Aziraphale wasn't really allowed to wear his standard Victorian era three-piece suit when they left Crowley's apartments. It wasn't exactly the sort of thing slaves were expected to be seen in.

Instead, the angel had draped himself in white cloth, very reminiscent of the outfit he had worn back in Rome (the time they went to Petronius' new restaurant and Crowley had found himself blatantly staring while Aziraphale slurped oysters in a manner that could only be called obscene...) Except that this time it showed quite a bit more skin—enough that Crowley found himself averting his eyes as he mumbled, “You all right, angel?”

“Yes I think so—I did go out some previously, other times, you know...anyways, this seems to be an acceptable way for angels to dress down here.”

“Yeah.” Crowley said, noncommittally. They both knew very well that wasn't what the demon had really been asking about.

“I'll be all right,” Aziraphale added, sounding as if he was convincing himself as well as Crowley, as he followed the latter to the grand front door, making sure to stay behind and already practicing keeping his gaze lowered to remain fixed on the demon's ankles.

Crowley, for his part, was incredibly torn about the angel being behind him. On the one hand, it meant that he didn't have to stare at Aziraphale's state of relative undress—it had been different, back when he'd first come. That hadn't really been his angel, and now...it was different. But on the other hand, he couldn't see the angel, couldn't keep an eye on him and protect him nearly as easily.

So he'd just have to do what he'd always done, for 6000 years.

Fake it like he knew what he was doing and destroy anyone who questioned otherwise.

Throwing back his shoulders and loosening up his arms, Crowley stepped through the door and swaggered down the corridor like he owned the place, forcing himself not to check up on Aziraphale as he heard the door click shut behind them, and then the soft padding footsteps of the angel catching back up to his place just behind the demon. Fortunately, there wasn't anyone just outside, which gave them a moment to get into the swing of things—in Crowley's case, almost literally, since the way he was walking caused his hips to sway quite a bit (Aziraphale definitely wasn't finding his eyes taking in all of Crowley's legs, most certainly not). So by the time they arrived at a busier intersection, Crowley was firmly in character. Any time any other demons so much as glanced towards him and Aziraphale, Crowley gave them a look that said, plain as day, “If you say or do anything whatsoever to interact with me, I will drop you into the deepest Hellfire pit I can find and laugh over your screams as you burn.”

It worked.

In some ways, Crowley was surprised, since during his life he'd seemed to have more than his fair share of bad luck, but on the other hand, most of the denizens of Hell who roamed the hallways wanted to mind their own business and only cared about getting wherever they were going just as fast as possible and with as little interaction as they could manage.

When they reached the enormous portico entrance to the library, Crowley could hear Aziraphale's soft gasp behind him, and then feel the breath of the angel against his ear as he whispered, “It looks exactly the same!”

“Told you,” the demon whispered back, casting half a smile in the angel's direction before striding in to find Sylvester.

…

Crowley had informed Sylvester that he was bringing his slave (oh the word tasted SO FOUL in Crowley's mouth every time he said it) along to help him with research, and so the librarian was unsurprised to see Aziraphale.

And if he was at all startled that, as soon as they'd found themselves back in the deeper recesses of the library, away from any of the few other patrons, Aziraphale started taking the initiative, asking questions and requesting book recommendations, he didn't show it.

“Lord Crowley's been in quite frequently, you know, but I don't know that we've found what you're looking for.” Aziraphale shot a glance at Crowley, but then promptly returned his attention to Sylvester.

“Well, might I just see what you have? Especially anything about the origins of this...program,” Aziraphale couldn't keep a distasteful grimace off his face at the last word.

“Of course. Here you are,” Sylvester gestured at a relatively small stack of books, “This is what Lord Crowley has looked through so far. I'll go see if we have any other resources; let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thank you very much for your help.”

Sylvester nodded, and started to walk away, but paused before he'd gone too far, “Not all demons are bad, you know,” and then he was gone.

Aziraphale stared after him for a moment, pondering, before he looked back at Crowley, “You never told me you were a Lord now!” 

Crowley, who had thrown himself into a chair while Aziraphale and Sylvester did whatever it was nerdy booklovers did when they congregated, waved a hand dismissively, “It's more a formality than anything else. Didn't come with any extra powers or anything—just a title from...from what I did to help bring about the Apocalypse.”

That word hung in the air for a moment over their heads, heavy and uncomfortable.

Aziraphale finally started moving again, a forced air of nonchalance in his gestures as he withdrew his reading glasses from some fold in his garment (Crowley wondered if it was actually another of his not-miracle miracles), “Oh.” And then, “You know, those last few days on Earth...and right after.” Another pause, “That's the only thing I still can't remember.”

Crowley knew what Aziraphale wanted him to do, but he wasn't going to say anything except a “Mmm,” unless the angel specifically asked.

Which he did as he opened one of the larger books, sitting across from Crowley.

“Tell me what happened?”

Crowley sighed, and took his glasses off to rub the bridge of his nose, trying to decide what he really ought to tell the angel, “You remember Warlock's birthday party?”

“Yes.”

“And then what?”

“Well...we knew he was the wrong boy, because there was no dog. So we sent out human operatives to try and find him, and we found clues in a town called Tadfield. But then...” Aziraphale frowned, “Then...I'd found the book. The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter. I was going to tell you what it said—I called you and said 'I know where the Antichrist is.' But it went to your ridiculous ansaphone, and then...” Aziraphale blinked and shook his head sadly, “I don't remember after that. Nothing. Until I woke up in Hell, a slave to demons.”

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, meeting sulfurous yellow eyes with oceanic blue, “What happened, Crowley?”

“You...you were discorporated. I thought you'd died.” Crowley bit his lip and had to look away, “Up until I saw you, a few weeks ago, I'd always thought you were dead. I went back—after you called, I went back to the bookshop.”

His throat choked up, and he had to close his eyes for a moment, “And...it burned down, angel. You were gone. And the shop burned down.”

“...all of it?” Aziraphale's voice was soft and sad.

“Yeah.” Crowley looked back, “Funnily enough the only thing I rescued was your stupid prophecy book, much good it did me. I gave it back to book girl after the world ended—figured she'd need it more than I would.”

“What did you do?”

“I thought about running away to Alpha Centauri. But someone had killed my best friend, so I got wasted instead—watched the world burn around me, and didn't even feel it because...because I'd already lost everything that mattered.”

The library, already quiet, was suddenly and immensely dead silent. Crowley couldn't meet Aziraphale's gaze anymore, and instead let his eyes rest on the spine of some ancient and musty scroll, feeling the angel staring at him and trying not to squirm under the scrutiny.

Finally, Aziraphale just whispered, “Oh...Crowley...” in a breath that was almost a sigh, and contained hundreds of silent, unshed tears. He reached across the table to rest one plump warm hand on Crowley's cold, bony wrist, “I'm so sorry.”

“Yeah...well...” Crowley sniffed, trying to maintain his aura of nonchalance and failing pretty miserably, “That was that. And then I got a commendation for helping, so I couldn't even disappear like I wanted to. Stayed on Earth awhile, but it wasn't the same, and they called me back down here to consult after a few decades anyways.”

“Crowley. Crowley, look at me, please,” the demon couldn't disobey his angel when he asked so like that, “It wasn't your fault, dearest. None of it was.”

“How? How wasn't it my fault angel?” Crowley could hear his voice rising in volume, and had to force himself back down to a harsh whisper, almost a hiss, “I delivered the Antichrissst to Earth, and then I helped him end the world!” 

Aziraphale replied sagely, “We are all players in the...”

“You better not be about to say 'Ineffable Plan.'”

“Um...well...well the point is, Crowley, you are not to blame for that. And you are certainly not to blame for what happened to me. I don't even know what it was that happened, but I do know that you carry no fault for it. None. All right?”

Crowley turned away again, and muttered, “Right.” Before Aziraphale could say anything else (and the demon could tell that he was about to from the way he started puffing up, ready for more words), he stabbed at the book on the desk and asked, “You find anything yet?”

Aziraphale gave him a look that informed Crowley that the angel knew exactly what he was doing and that they would most certainly be returning to this conversation latter, but returned to his reading, “Not yet.”

Crowley swung his feet up on the table (which earned him another Look from Aziraphale) and leaned back in his chair, “Right then, angel. Best get to it.”


	25. Deus Ex Machina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale finds something

Crowley was bored. Ridiculously bored. Transcendentally bored.

Before, when he'd been the one doing research, he'd always read with an air of frantic panic—feeling like time was constantly running out on him, flipping pages back and forth and scouring paragraphs for individual words that might help. 

Aziraphale was far more methodical, of course. Actually bothering to read all the words. So Crowley spent several hours slowly sinking farther and farther into his chair, even drifting off once or twice before jerking awake as Aziraphale muttered something under his breath or shifted slightly.

Finally, though, Aziraphale stopped reading. Paused. Put his finger to the words on the page and read again. And then once more, “Crowley!”

“Huh?” Crowley started into full consciousness as the angel shook his arm, “Whassup?”

Aziraphale shook his head slightly, only just hiding a little smile, and pointed to the page, “I think I might have found something!”

Crowley squinted at the tiny text, “What's it say, angel?”

“Well,” Aziraphale pulled the book back to him and read, “The legal language is a bit complicated—“

“I'm sure that's intentional,” Crowley muttered, once again cursing Hell's legal team.

“BUT, what I believe it says is something along the lines of this: the collars that all angels wear” he taped a finger against the metal band, as if Crowley would have forgotten what he was talking about, “Only work against Angelic miracles, not demonic ones.” He looked up at Crowley, beaming, “Which explains, of course, why we can get around that...I'm technically using demonic miracles.”

Crowley just stared back, “Okay. Well that's one more mystery solved I guess. But what does that have to do with getting your collar OFF?”

“Well, there's something I read earlier,” Aziraphale flipped back to a page he'd bookmarked (probably another miracle that), “And what it says here is that ONLY an angel can be forced into slavery—no demons can.”

Crowley still hadn't put the pieces together, “Yes...I knew that—otherwise half of Hell'd be enslaved to someone.”

“Yes! But, Crowley! We just learned, I can do miracles—demonic miracles! And, although I can't believe I'm saying this, that might be the key to all of this! Because if I go to someone who's in charge, and do a miracle without the collar affecting me--”

“Then they'll think you're a demon.” Crowley finished, the light bulb finally coming on over his head.

“Exactly,” Aziraphale nodded, “Or at least, enough of one to raise some questions.”

A smile slowly spread across the demon's face, “That...might just work, angel.”

Aziraphale wiggled happily in his chair, and Crowley had to physically restrain himself from reaching across the table and kissing him.

Nope, nope, none of that now.

Instead, he turned his restless energy into pacing, “We'd probably be best off going straight to the top: Lord Beelzebub has been much more sympathetic than some of the others...and I don't imagine you'd like to deal with Hastur again.”

Aziraphale blanched at the name, and Crowley nodded, “Me neither. But with Beelzebub we might stand a chance...” The demon stopped pacing and turned back to the angel, “Um. Specifically because the Prince actually owes me a favor.”

“Beelzebub owes YOU a favor? How did you manage that?”

Crowley sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair, “It goes back to the apocalypse, again. After we'd figured out that Warlock wasn't the right boy, I had an idea to go to the higher ups and tell them that I'd intentionally done the switch because I knew that the Opposition,” he looked at Aziraphale, “That's you, had figured out the plan—that there was a traitor in Hell who had informed Heaven of Hell's machinations. And so in order to exert my demonic will upon the child without being interrupted, I'd orchestrated a switch so that only Hell's agent knew where the child really was, and in order to allow the Apocalypse to occur, it would have to stay that way.”

“And they believed you?”

“They had to, after Warlock appeared on the fields of Megiddo with no Hellhound and no powers. And after the Apocalypse happened as planned...” Crowley shrugged, “Well. As much as I didn't want it to happen, it made me look very good in Hell's eyes, and made Beelzebub, who of course pretended like it was their idea all along, look exceptionally clever. So. Yes. You could say they owe me a favor.”

Crowley didn't know than in another universe, he hadn't had such a clever idea and had wound up having to kill a Duke of Hell and go on the run. He went back to pacing for a few more moments, still muttering out loud, “Yes...and this would erase that debt, which of course they'd be happy about, and...and, of course, best of all we wouldn't have to deal with Hastur again—which I'm sure you want to avoid.”

Aziraphale nodded emphatically.

Crowley took a few more steps before once again turning to the angel, now properly grinning, “Let's do it, angel—let's get you out of here.”

He turned on his heel, and was about to head straight off for Beelzebub's office, when Aziraphale's voice made him stop, “Wait!”

Crowley turned, his smile instantly gone, “What is it, angel?”

Aziraphale was still sitting at the table, fretting with a piece of fabric from his outfit.

“Aziraphale? Is something wrong?”

“No! No--”

“I thought you'd want to get out of here right away...”

“I do! It's just—it's just I have to do something first, Crowley.”

Crowley furrowed his brow, “What's that, angel?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and looked up at his friend, “I have to get the rest of my memories back.”

Crowley sat back down in his chair as Aziraphale continued, “And...and I think there's only one place where I can do that, isn't there?”

The demon was unfortunately sure of his answer, “Yes.”

“So...I suppose we might have to see Hastur again after all...”

Crowley didn't react for a few moments, before he finally sighed heavily, “All right, angel. Might as well get this over with.” He slowly stood up, turning, only to find himself face-to-face with Sylvester.

“I couldn't help but overhear—you're trying to get into Their office, aren't you?”

Crowley couldn't really see a point in denying it, but Aziraphale beat him to it, rising to address the library demon, “Yes, we are. You see, they took something very valuable from me.”

Sylvester nodded, “Well...all I can say is this. As far as I know, the three of them have been down stuck working on the plumbing on floor seven all morning, and it looks like it could keep them for quite awhile.” His deep blue eyes flickered back from Aziraphale to Crowley, “So you might have a chance. Although I'd still say you want to hurry. Oh, and my brother broke in there a few years ago, so I have this.” Sylvester pulled what looked like a twisted metal key from his pocket, “Might help with the front door, but after that you're on your own.”

Crowley took the key, a little stunned, and Aziraphale asked, bewildered, “But...you're a demon. Why are you helping an angel?”

Sylvester snapped his gaze back to the angel, “As I said earlier. Not all demons are bad. Just as not all angels are good. But what we ALL should be concerned with is fairness and justice. After all, that's what Hell was built on, wasn't it Crawley?” The old version of Crowley's name was definitely deliberate, and the demon had a sudden and very uncomfortable feeling that Sylvester knew a hell of a lot more about all of this, and both of them, than he had thought.

But the library demon simply nodded, “Best of luck. Don't suppose I'll see you here again, no matter how it turns out,” turned on his heel, and disappeared among the stacks of books.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a few notes for this chapter I suppose:
> 
> First of all, the idea of having Aziraphale and Crowley be partially a demon and angel respectfully was actually what I thought happened in the show the first time I watched it (I didn't get that they'd switched bodies and thought that they had "gone native").
> 
> Secondly, I rather like the idea that Crowley came up with something to make it look like he still knew what he was doing, even when the Antichrist turned up missing. Especially because it makes Hastur look like a twat in retrospect.
> 
> And finally, Sylvester was not supposed to have nearly as much a part in this story originally, but he decided to cameo himself in and, in fact, is the reason for the chapter title. You probably don't care, but he's an OC who, in his story, is the second son of the personification of the Deadly Sin of Gluttony and a rogue demon (which is why he doesn't behave like the rest of Hell) and I really hope to write that novel someday.


End file.
